Short Careers, Eating Disorders
by the-fraulein
Summary: postRENT. Roger deals with depression, cutting and an eating disorder. What shining knight in thick lenses will come to save him?COMPLETED...I think.
1. Color My Hair But The Dye Grows Out

Notes: New story! Ok, I have to credit the basic plot and the idea to Joy2, who asked me to give this a whirl. Much thanks to her for being so fucking groovy as to flatter me into trying it.  
  
Disclaimer: This story is post-RENT, and contains self-mutilation and eating disorders, not to mention a healthy serving of slash. If this disagrees with your stomach this is not the place for you. Mosey on over to the G-rated happy section.  
  
Other Disclaimer: I think we're all well aware that none of us on this site own RENT, but here it is again, I don't own it and am not affiliated with it. I'm just a poor broke teenager with an overactive imagination. And a fetish for angsty gay boys. But really, aren't we all?  
  
Chapter 1 -Color My Hair But The Dye Grows Out-  
  
My hipbones have always stuck out. It was never really noticeable until I got so out of shape when I was on heroin and whatever, but I've noticed recently that they've gotten significantly more prominent. More so than before. I run my fingers over them, then sigh and pull my pants all the way up. I pick a shirt from the top of the pile, careful that it has long sleeves, and pull it over my head. I cast a reluctant glance back at the bed I refuse to sleep in and then make my way out of the room.  
  
"Hey! You're alive!" Mark calls out happily, turning the familiar camera-face onto me. He lowers it a moment later, biting his lip at his choice of words.  
  
I shrug at him and go into the bathroom and shut the door. I stare at my reflection, and feel around the lymph nodes in my throat, they've been sore lately. They feel relatively normal so I just sigh and run a hand through my hair. The bleach is fading, I can see light brown roots underneath. It's also really long. And so is my sorry excuse for a beard. I poke my way around the bathroom until I find a couple unused razors and a thinning role of duct tape next to them. I wrap a piece of tape around the handle of the razor and go about shaving the growth off. Mimi wouldn't have wanted me to grow a beard, no matter who died.  
  
I cast another glance at my slightly cleaner reflection but just roll my eyes and turn away. It's a hopeless cause. I let myself out of the bathroom and make my way over to the table. I pull myself up onto it and sit, staring at the floor.  
  
"Hey, you want something to eat?" Mark asks hesitantly.  
  
I shrug. He slowly comes over and climbs up next to me.  
  
"How are you?"  
  
I shrug again. "Fine." I choke out.  
  
"Roger. . ."  
  
I turn to give him a glare. "How do you think I feel, Mark? My girlfriend just died!"  
  
He says nothing, but I know what he's thinking. And I suppose it's true. Mimi didn't just die, she's been dead half a year. I sigh and slide off of the table and head back to my room.  
  
"Roger, wait."  
  
I turn slowly and watch him, waiting for him to continue. He joins me near my doorway. I look down at him indifferently. He stands before me, a short little man with blond hair and his aging shit camera held tight, close to his body. He pushes his glasses up his nose and smiles shyly at the floor.  
  
"Do you want to, I don't know, talk?" He asks hopefully, looking up.  
  
I shrug. "Not really. I'm just going to go lie down or something."  
  
"Are you sure you're not hungry?"  
  
The idea of eating right now somewhat disgusts me. How do I have time to eat? I have my set schedule of mourning and self-pity that I've only recently started to include Mark into. It's not that I don't eat, but setting aside actual time in my day for an actual meal seems sort of wasteful.  
  
"I'll eat later, Mark. I'm just tired."  
  
"Are you feeling alright?"  
  
"Look, just, back off... ok? I don't need this right now." I don't yell at him. I don't have the energy to yell at him. No energy and all I do is mourn and sleep. My arm is burning.  
  
"I'm fine, Mark." I tell him, trying to soften my tone. "Just tired, that's all." I say dreamily, pushing past him and going in my room. I shut the door in his face, drowning out his last words to me. I put the broken wooden chair up against it under the knob to serve as a lock and walk over to the bed. I don't sleep in it, but it's got other uses.  
  
I lift the mattress up off the floor. Underneath is my collection. Gleaming, silver and stained. Pretty maids all in a row. I take a small one and lower the mattress again. I lean against the wall and lift up my sleeve. The first time I cut myself I was probably fourteen. Old man was drinking, again, pushed my mom around some, and I sat upstairs and listened to it. And I felt guilty for not doing anything. So I was just holding my switchblade, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. It's never been regular. Only when I've felt particularly guilty or I'm lonely, or pissed. I've never been compulsive about it. Until now.  
  
Shallow, small little cut near the elbow. Practice. A little farther down the arm now and I drag it across the skin, then really sink it in. A line of blood rushes up to greet me and I pull the knife away. Enough for today. I wipe the blade carelessly on my pants and then lift up the mattress again and leave it with the others. I let the sleeve of my shirt fall over the wounds and lay down on the blanket I sleep on. I reach into the front pocket of my pants and my hand hits a too-prominent hipbone. They really stick out when I'm lying down. I close my eyes and turn onto my side.  
  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  
  
Reluctantly I open my eyes to the pounding on my door. I groan softly and sit up, disturbed by the feeble growl my stomach gives as a way of morning greeting. I stand and move the chair away from the door. I open it to reveal Mark holding a bowl of cereal up to me.  
  
"Hey, I noticed you shaved." He says, holding the bowl out farther. "I thought you might be feeling a little better, you know..." He sighs. "So I brought you this."  
  
I shrug but take it from him and go to shut the door. "Thanks, Mark."  
  
He holds a hand out to stop the door from closing on him.  
  
"Why don't you come out here and eat? We can talk or something, anything." He looks hopeful, pleading with his eyes. "Just to get you out of your room."  
  
"I was out yesterday." I say nonchalantly, not really thinking about the words.  
  
"Yeah, well..." He says slowly. "I don't know, I just thought..." He sighs. "I'm worried about you, Rog." He looks past me. "Do you sleep on the floor?"  
  
I lift one shoulder up and then drop it again. It doesn't really seem to matter. I look down at the bowl in my hands. Little squares of flavor swimming in a white pool of what doesn't belong in my body right now.  
  
"I can't handle the bed. She's been there." I say quietly. I lift up the spoon and then drop it back in the bowl. I hand it back to Mark.  
  
"You can eat it, I'm not really all that hungry." I try to shut the door but he pushes it again.  
  
"One spoonful, Rog. Please."  
  
"I'm not hungry." I succeed in closing the door and I replace the chair. I lift up the mattress again and take out my switchblade, my old favorite. I lift up the right leg of my pants and get a good little scrape next to the others on my ankle. I drag the blade over a vein on the top of my arm but don't press down. I feel the scratch of the metal over my skin, a sharp little tingle following a lifeline, then I move it slightly to the right and give it a good push and pull it back towards me. Drop the sleeve and hide the evidence. No one ever needs to know.  
  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 


	2. There Is Nothing Nice Inside My Mind

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I affiliated with RENT. Story is most definitely rated R and not for the kiddies or close-minded.  
  
Notes: Thanks for the awesome reviews guys, you really rock.  
  
And note to MistressFlame: But melodrama is what I do best! ;) Enjoy guys!  
  
Chapter 2  
  
-There Is Nothing Nice Inside My Mind-  
  
I cautiously open my door, but Mark makes no movement besides sending a casual glance upwards. I open it the rest of the way and head to the kitchen. I fill a glass with tap water and climb up onto the table, staring at the floor as I drink it. I see Mark hesitantly stand and make his way over. I glance up at him but say nothing. He's close enough to touch when I slide off of the table and go to refill the glass.  
  
"Hey, Roger?" He calls. I don't answer him and I hear his cautious footsteps coming into the kitchen.  
  
"Hey." He says softly, leaning against the wall, watching me. He shoves his hands in his pockets.  
  
I shrug at him and drink more water.  
  
"Do you want anything?" He asks me. He picks up the cereal sitting next to the sink and shakes the box at me. "We've got some food for once, why not take advantage of it?"  
  
Clever, Mark. Very clever. I give him a long look, wondering the effects of acknowledging his presence, then hold out my hand. He stares at it for a moment, then turns the box on its side and pours some cereal into my outstretched hand. I resist the urge to toss some back in the box when he gives me too much. I refill the glass once more and head back to my room, leaving Mark standing with the cereal box.  
  
I sit on my floor and lean against the wall and set the glass of water down next to me. I cross my legs and hold the handful of cereal out in front of me. I cautiously pick up a piece and put it in my mouth. Chew it slowly, and a few minutes later it's gone. I take two more, then lay the little pile on top of my guitar case and cover it with a sheet of paper in case Mark decides to look in again. Chewing, I rest my head against the wall behind me and close my eyes.  
  
I cross my arms in front of me and let them rest against my stomach. They sink in further than I remember them going before. I open my eyes and look down. My too-prominent hipbones have been joined by a too-prominent ribcage. Gently, I let my fingers slide over what is becoming a ledge underneath my ribs, above my stomach. I lift up my shirt and take it off. I don't remember being quite this thin before. I place my hands on my sides and run them down toward my hips, letting my fingers bump over every ridge on the way. I move the piece of paper and pick up one more square of cereal. I'm not really hungry, but I think of Mimi. She wouldn't want me to be starving myself, would she? So I manage the one last little square.  
  
I hear a pounding and I shift my head on the wall, wondering at the noise, until I realize it's Mark at the door again. I pull my shirt back on over my head and reluctantly go to it. I stand with my hand on the knob for a good minute until I hear him speak.  
  
"Hey, Roger? Maureen's here, you want to come out?"  
  
I slump against the wall and shove my hands in my pockets. Mark knocks again.  
  
"Roger?"  
  
Slowly I peel myself away from the wall and open the door cautiously. I'm met with Mark's worried, but hopeful face and a distraught Maureen sitting on the threadbare couch. Before I can retreat, Mark takes hold of my arm and all but pulls me out. I quickly pull my arm away, before he feels through the thick fabric of my sweater. Because Mark can't know. One or two little scars is one thing, and the old tracks he knows about, but not this. He doesn't notice my near panic, nor does he notice the missing skin around my stomach. He nudges me toward the couch and I reluctantly collapse on the far end from Maureen. She looks over apathetically, I doubt it really mattered to her whether or not I came out.  
  
Mark pulls up a three-legged chair that you have to support yourself on when you sit down in front of us. He sets his camera down beside him.  
  
"Why'd you break up this time, Maureen?" He asks gently, forever her savior.  
  
She sniffs dramatically and looks out the window with her eyebrows knit together and her hands clasped in front of her.  
  
"I don't understand why, Marky." She says sadly. "I was talking with this girl at this club I took Joanne too, and..."  
  
Mark smiles knowingly. "So you dragged Joanne to a club she didn't want to go to and started hitting on another woman?"  
  
"Right." Maureen says. "I didn't do anything with her, much." She adds as an afterthought.  
  
"So you cheated, again?" Mark shakes his head.  
  
"But it didn't mean anything! You know? Sometimes it's just sex and sometimes..."  
  
"Maureen," Mark says. "I think sometimes relationships are only about the sex."  
  
He never directly accuses her of anything, but he has a subtle way of telling her when she's wrong. Maureen smiles sadly.  
  
"Pookie, when we..."  
  
Mark gets up and goes to the kitchen. He comes back with a glass of water that he hands to Maureen.  
  
"You're lucky, I thought Roger might have drank it all." He smiles at me but I'm staring at Maureen, who's staring at me. Or more accurately, at the inch of wrist exposed from the cuff of my shirt.  
  
"What happened to your arm?" She asks softly.  
  
I shrug and push the sleeve down and cross my arms over my hollow stomach, loosely, so they don't show how much isn't there.  
  
Maureen sips at her water and looks away. Mark sits across from us again.  
  
"So what do I do, Marky? I really want her back, but she gets so pissy when I try to have fun." She stares pointedly at Mark, then lowers her eyes to the left to a spot on the floor.  
  
"Did you ever think, Maureen, that people don't like to be cheated on?" I ask her, my voice a gravel-filled rasp in my throat.  
  
She looks over at me but says nothing. I slowly get up and retreat. I shut the door behind me and go back to my space to sit. I run a hand through my dirty hair, the strands falling into my face. I push up the sleeves on my shirt and stare down at the beginning of the end. Little red lines, little white lines, little pink lines. Brown knots in between. Most faded and older by now, but still there. Dried blood up near my elbow. I pick it off, run my fingers over the wound, feel a sting from my touch. Not much to see here. I pull the sleeve back down. I stare at the mattress across the room, but I'm tired. Too tired to move, really. So I stay where I am and run my fingers up and down my left arm, the textures keeping me entertained.  
  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  
  
A gentle prod in my leg. I open my eyes and look up. Maureen stares down at me, then kneels in front of me. I say nothing.  
  
"You're really thin. Does Mark know how thin you are?" She asks, her dramatic act from before gone.  
  
I shrug and look at the wall behind her.  
  
"How have you been since, well, since Mimi died?" She tries.  
  
I shrug, hating hearing her name.  
  
"Why are your blankets on the floor? Why is there a pile of cereal on your guitar case? Why is your room full of half-filled glasses of water?"  
  
I shrug to each question, hating her pretty brown eyes and her nest of sweet-smelling blonde hair. Hating her thin fingers that she touches the side of my face with. I pull away from them sharply.  
  
"Mark says you never talk to him anymore. That you never do anything. Don't you think..."  
  
"No." I focus on her instead of the wall. Hating the curve of her lips, the shine of her teeth that suddenly seems blinding.  
  
She pulls back, and stands up. She stares down at me sadly.  
  
"You should eat something."  
  
And then she leaves. And I hear the front door open and shut as well.  
  
I hate when they try to understand, I hate when someone tries to relate. I pull myself up, using the wall for support and stand. I make my way out of my room and go to Mark's closed door. I can hear a gentle snore from inside and for a moment wonder if there's someone else in there because Mark hasn't slept well for weeks. I know, I can hear him pacing or narrating to his camera early in the mornings. But no one's been here besides Maureen. I gently turn the knob and go inside.  
  
Mark lies on his stomach, the blankets covering him entirely except for his exposed shoulders. His face is toward the door, surprisingly younger and thinner without his glasses. I close the door behind me and walk over toward his bed. He wakes up before I can say a word.  
  
"Roger?" He asks in a deeper voice than usual, tinged with morning and exhaust. "Jesus, what are doing?" He pulls himself up to a sitting position and looks over at me.  
  
"Are you alright?"  
  
I nod and look at the floor. A sudden overwhelming urge to finally have that 'talk' he's been asking for hits me. I look back up at him, seeing his round, tired eyes and the two little spots on each side of his nose where his glasses sit everyday.  
  
"Next time you see Maureen, tell her not to talk me anymore." I tell him, and turn around and head for the door.  
  
"Wait! Roger, wait!" He calls out, and I hear him stumbling out of bed and reaching for his glasses. But I'm out already, retreating. No nerve anymore. All I have is an incessant desire to hold something gleaming and deadly. Poise it above a vein and just imagine the possibilities. Who has time for life, when you can spend yours challenging it?  
  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 


	3. Pathetic Acts For A Worthless Cause

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I affiliated with RENT. Story is most definitely rated R and not for the kiddies or close-minded.  
  
Notes: Thanks so much for the reviews, I love you all!!!  
  
Chapter 3  
  
-Pathetic Acts For A Worthless Cause-  
  
I wake up when I feel unfamiliar warmth on my forehead. The hand moves away as I open my eyes against the light in the room. Mark sits next to me on the floor, the hand that had been on my forehead now resting uneasily on the blanket beneath me.  
  
"You're so cold." He says quietly. His fingers play along the edge of the blanket. I watch them, the thin digits poking at the ripped fabric. I can imagine the bones through the skin, see the definition of the bones in his hand. His knuckles look large and swollen compared to the tapered, thin flesh on either side. It's not his hand. It's mine. I pull it up to my face and stare at my fingers. I flex them a few times, watch the movement.  
  
"Are you alright?" Mark asks nervously. "Maybe I should get you more blankets."  
  
"Yeah." I find myself whispering to him. "Yeah, I'm cold."  
  
A chill fills the room, flooding over me and my skin turns into a mess of little knobs. I shiver involuntarily, but Mark seems oblivious to the temperature. He leaves and returns in a matter of seconds with two more blankets.  
  
"These are your blankets." I tell him as he tucks the first one around me.  
  
He shrugs slightly. "I don't need them. I'm not cold."  
  
"Bullshit." I cough. "You're always cold."  
  
He shrugs again. "I have my coat. It matters more if you're cold anyway."  
  
I watch him spread the second blanket over my body, pulling it up to my neck, tucking it neatly around my body.  
  
"Are your feet cold?"  
  
I laugh bitterly under my breath. "I'm fine. You've done enough." I don't mean for it to come out quite as hostile as it did, but I say nothing else. Mark bites his lip and looks down at me for long moment before nodding. He sets down a little bottle next to me and slowly stands up.  
  
"Take your AZT. I know you haven't taken it in awhile."  
  
I don't say anything and he silently slips out the door. I watch him go, both touched and annoyed. I'm no longer tired, but I'm so cold, and Mark gave me his blankets. So I stay, and soon enough find myself drifting.  
  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  
  
When I finally move, I push the blankets aside and shiver. I'm already wearing a sweater, but I pick up another one and pull it over my head. Wrapping my arms around myself I sit in my niche against the wall, across from the window. I start to poke at the cereal pieces left on top of my guitar case. I arrange them, then rearrange them. I take one out, then two, then replace them. I put them all in a straight line and put the piece of paper back over them. My eyes find the AZT bottle across the room. It's true I haven't been taking them. I haven't been taking them for almost three months now. And occasionally I feel the effects of it. But it's nothing I'm really concerned about anymore.  
  
With these two huge sweaters, the bones don't really show.  
  
I pick myself up off of the floor and open the door. Mark isn't anywhere in sight so I let myself out and head toward the bathroom. I stand in front of the mirror, my skin graying, my eyes bruised and dark. No wonder Mark looks nervous when he talks to me, I look like my own corpse. The dead one smirks. In a few months that's probably what you'll be.  
  
Maybe I can just take the pills today. I roll up the sleeves on my left arm. Take a break today? Maybe just for Mimi's sake. Mimi wouldn't want me to do this to myself. So maybe just today. I roll the sleeves back down and press my hands into my stomach. Maybe I should eat that cereal in my room. But I'm just not hungry.  
  
I go to the kitchen, but can't find anymore glasses or paper cups. They're all in my room. I cup my hand under the faucet and bring the small pool of water to my lips. It'll have to do.  
  
"Roger? What are you doing?"  
  
Slowly, I let my hand fall away, the excess liquid spilling back into the sink. I shut off the faucet and stand up straight. I lean carefully against the wall.  
  
"Nothing. I was thirsty."  
  
"Why didn't you use a glass?" He asks, a touch of humour in his voice. But there's really nothing funny.  
  
"They're all dirty." I tell him.  
  
"No, they're all in your room." He corrects. "Maybe you should clean those out." He suggests. Then his tone softens. "Are you feeling any better? Still cold?"  
  
I shrug and turn away. He sighs.  
  
"Roger, just when I think I'm getting a response out of you, I get shut out again. Why can't you just talk to me?"  
  
He comes dangerously close to me, his fingertips grazing the lump of empty fabric on my arm. I don't pull away yet.  
  
"Rog, it's been six months. Don't you think you should start opening up again?"  
  
I say nothing, but look down at him. His glasses have slid down his nose, his brow furrowed with concern. His fingers start to press down onto my arm.  
  
"Mark, I'm not worth the effort." I tell him quietly, pulling away. I hold my arm against my body and start to back away. "I'm sorry."  
  
"Roger." He starts, but never finishes. He watches me retreat, his arms falling limply to his sides, looking defeated.  
  
I go back to my room and close the door. I lift up the mattress and take a larger one this time, then settle in next to my guitar case against the wall. Push up the sleeves on my right arm and sink the knife into the skin. Rips through it like paper. Pierces like meat. I remember my promise earlier for Mimi. Not today. Well too late now, I'll just have to make it count. Blood spills, more than usual. A deep cut. I pull the knife back, wincing as it slides backwards out of my skin, and make another slice a few inches away. Blood wells so quickly I drop the knife in shock. I've never cut myself so deep before. I touch one of the wide bubbles forming over the cut and it splits and spills faster. Did I cut something? I start to feel a little dizzy. I ignore the feeling and shove my sleeve back down over the cut. For you, Mimi. Maybe I'll join you sooner than I hoped.  
  
I start to push the cereal around again, two little vertical lines, one long horizontal one. Put them in a circle, push them apart again. There's a dark, dark stain on the sleeve of my shirt. Mark can't know, Mark can't know. The cereal blurs in front of me and I feel myself falling. My eyes land on the doorway, Mark is in the room as soon as he hears me fall. Right before he kneels at my side I close my eyes.  
  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  
  
Still dizzy, now with a terrible headache included, I open my eyes. Mark is sitting in a chair next to the bed watching me. When I opened my eyes he immediately bent forward and rested his hand on the bed.  
  
"Are you ok?" He asks desperately, then sighs and rolls his eyes, looking away. "Of course you're not ok. If you were ok you wouldn't be here. If you were ok you wouldn't have been doing this." He looks at me again, his eyes angry and sad.  
  
"Why, Roger?" He asks me. I know from the redness around his eyes he's been crying. Those few silent tears Mark will shed when he's really upset. He wasted them on me. It leads me to wonder how many times I've made him cry in the past six months. In all the years I've known him.  
  
I can't look at him anymore, and I don't answer his question. I don't know how to tell him I wasn't really trying to kill myself. I don't know how to tell him why, because I don't honestly know. Because I was depressed. Because I missed Mimi. It was something to do. I look back over at him and he gently reaches for my hand. His fingers entwine with mine, his hands warm and soft, mine cold and hard.  
  
"I thought," He says quietly. "That I might have lost you." He looks down before I can see him blush. I hear him sniff. He looks back up.  
  
"I try to help you, Rog. I really do. Why won't you let me help you?"  
  
I glance down at the white bandage over my right arm, see in plain view all the little scars up and down my arms, knowing my legs look almost the same. This is too much to ask someone to help. I'm not worth it.  
  
"Rog, they say you're really underweight too." Mark says softly. I look back up at him. "I know you miss Mimi, but she wouldn't want you to..."  
  
"How do you know what Mimi would want, Mark?" I yell at him. He flinches backwards. "You don't know even know what you want out of life, let alone what I want. You don't know anything!"  
  
A nurse comes in. "Is there a problem?"  
  
"No." Mark says quickly. "No, he's fine."  
  
"I can sedate him if you think he'd be more comfortable."  
  
"Jesus, I'm right fucking here!" I yell at both of them.  
  
"Mr. Davis, please." The nurse says, exasperated. She gives Mark one last look, asking him if he's sure, but he shakes his head and the nurse leaves.  
  
"What did you tell them?" I ask him.  
  
He doesn't answer right away. "I said it was an accident. I don't know if they believe me or not, but I don't think they'll put you in therapy or anything."  
  
"Good." I say under my breath.  
  
"Look, Rog." He tries again. "You, you weigh almost what I do, and you're a lot bigger than me. That's not healthy. You really should..."  
  
"I don't want to hear it, ok Mark? Just, back off. I'm tired." I tell him, my voice weary and soft.  
  
He nods reluctantly, but lets it drop.  
  
"Can I get another blanket?" I ask him. "I'm really cold."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I'll get the nurse. I'll be right back." He tells me and stands up, letting go of my hand. I'm struck by the disappearance of the warmth from his hand. I pull it under the blankets to try to warm it up.  
  
He comes back in with a couple blankets and begins to tuck them around me like he did hours ago, yesterday, I've lost track of the time. When my eyes meet his he smiles gently, but it's sad. I know no matter what he'll be here to take care of me and help me through it, but at this point I'm really not in the mood for any of his help.  
  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  
  
Notes continued: Hope you enjoyed! 


	4. I Am All The Things That You Regret

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I affiliated with RENT. Story is most definitely rated R and not for the kiddies or close-minded.  
  
Notes: Thanks again you all, you're too nice to me! ;)  
  
Chapter 4  
  
-I Am All The Things That You Regret-  
  
I lay on the floor, enveloped in blankets, watching as Mark clears my room of the water glasses. He shakes his head at me and smiles nervously.  
  
"Why do you do this?" He asks me. I don't think he's just asking about the glasses.  
  
I say nothing and close my eyes. I hear him sigh, then the gentle clink of glass on glass as he sets down the ones he's holding and kneels beside me.  
  
"I'm here for you, Rog. You know that, right?"  
  
I rub my sore arm under the blankets with my left hand and try to ignore him. I press my fingers into the bandage, savoring the gentle, poking prod of pain.  
  
"I know you don't really want to talk yet, or do much of anything, but please tell me when you need help! Don't..." He pauses and I open my eyes to look up at him. "Don't do something stupid again, please."  
  
His eyes connect with mine and I see the pink tinge in his cheeks. He looks down quickly.  
  
"Cause, I mean, if you..."  
  
"It really wasn't so stupid, Mark." I rasp. "What good am I to anyone anyway?"  
  
To my surprise he throws one of the glasses. It shatters against my wall and a shower of sharp little crystals falls to the floor.  
  
"Will you stop feeling sorry for yourself? People die, shit happens! How come nobody else seems to hole up inside themselves for months at a time?" He stands up and glares down at me, his thin little face contorted in rage finally coming to a head after half a year of my bullshit.  
  
"I don't know, Mark." I tell him softly.  
  
"Because they're not fucking weak like you! You're not the only one that matters here! I haven't gone anywhere in..."  
  
"So fucking go!" I tell him, barely raising my voice. "No one told you that you have to stay here."  
  
He says nothing, then shakes his head. "I can't go." He says quietly, his tone softening.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because I don't trust you alone." He groans and sits down again. "Look at the shit you do while I'm here! I'm just afraid that I'll leave you here alone and..."  
  
"I won't be here when you get back?"  
  
He nods, a quick little gesture I might have missed if I hadn't been watching him so closely at the moment. I hear him sigh and he looks down at me.  
  
"Why, Roger? I mean, do you really just want me to leave you alone?"  
  
I shrug at him and say nothing. I can sense him losing his temper again.  
  
"You have to get over it, Roger. You have to get over Mimi. You can't live the rest of your life this way."  
  
My eyes meet his and I stare into them for a long moment. "Is that what you'll do when I die? Get over it? Forget me?" I drop my head back onto the blanket I use as a pillow. "You can't just forget people, Mark. They're a part of you. When you lose someone you love, you lose a part of yourself." I shrug, watching his reaction to my words. I cough slightly into the air and quickly bring a fist up to my mouth. Mark moves forward instantly and his fingertips brush against my shoulder before he pulls back again. I stare up at him.  
  
"I didn't mean forget her, Roger." He says. "But you need to realize that..."  
  
"I don't want to hear it, Mark." I tell him firmly. I sigh and rub my eyes with the tips of my fingers. "I'll tell you when I want to talk, alright? But, just back off." I try to keep my tone somewhat calm, and for the most part, I succeed.  
  
He stands up, his hands dropping to his sides, staring down at me with a hopeless sort of disappointment.  
  
"Fine." He says. "Just let me know then." He shrugs. "I'll stop bothering you, I guess."  
  
He leaves my room, closing the door behind him. I rub at my arm, pushing the soreness around under the bandage.  
  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  
  
A few hours of my new solitude and I'm wondering what it was inside of me that demanded for time alone. The cracks on the wall are no comfort for the pounding sound of silence in my head, nor is the sharp, gleaming and silver stash under the mattress next to me. Once I found my peace, I found I hated it.  
  
Slowly, I pull myself up off of the floor and stagger to the door. I lay a hand against the door to steady myself before opening it and starting toward Mark's room. His door is closed, and I decide against knocking. Instead I wrap bony fingers around the knob and slowly open the door.  
  
Mark's lying on his bed. Not doing much of anything. He has his arms up, his hands under his head and his eyes closed. I think he might actually be sleeping, but don't know for sure. I walk into his room, slowly sink to my knees beside his bed and watch him for a few minutes. He's still wearing his glasses. I reach up and over and try to pull them off without waking him, since I'm sure by now he's completely asleep. Unfortunately he makes a noise of protest and stirs. I immediately pull my hands back.  
  
"Roger?" He asks sleepily, squinting at me through his glasses. "What's wrong? Do you..." He yawns and sits up. "You ok?"  
  
I nod and look at the floor, tracing a finger over the edge of one of the floorboards. I hear him sigh above me.  
  
"Then what? I thought you wanted me to leave you alone."  
  
I shrug and look back up at him. "I was wrong." I tell him, then look away again.  
  
Mark slides off of his bed and sits beside me on the floor.  
  
"So, you want to talk?" He asks cautiously.  
  
I shrug. He sighs.  
  
"Roger." He says simply, and I nod.  
  
He says nothing for a moment. "Why don't you just start at the beginning? Start when," He hesitates. "When Mimi died."  
  
My eyes meet his and I wonder at his audacity for a moment, then relax and start to think about it. My mind's clearer than it's been in months.  
  
"You can't," I start, then hesitate and try again. "I loved her, Mark. I loved her and now she's gone, you know?" I look in his eyes, hoping he understands my meaning even though I'm not saying it. He nods at me and I feel the gentle nudge of his fingertips near my hand. I let his fingers connect with mine, he rubs his thumb over my knuckles and stares down at our hands. I don't have to say anything else, he understands.  
  
I sit with him in silence for a few minutes before he looks back up again. I meet his gaze and question him with my eyes. His fingers move to rest on my wrist and he slowly pulls the sleeve of my sweater up to my elbow. I look down at the maze of little cuts, and big cuts and healing ones still sore and red, and old white lines.  
  
"But why this, Roger? I just, I don't get it." He says.  
  
I pull my arm away from his reach and push my sleeve back down. I shrug at him. He sighs heavily and crosses his arms and looks down at the floor.  
  
"Without Mimi, I don't like myself." I tell him in a shaking voice. "I feel like I'm that person again, that shell that you lived with after April, you know? Once I realized what I had been doing then, I... I don't know, it was so stupid. But without Mimi, I don't think I can be anything else, you know? I'd need her to feel that way again."  
  
"But Roger," Mark says. "You've made yourself that way again. You don't need Mimi to be alive, or to love or whatever. I'm not saying to forget her," He says to my noise of protest. "But you do this to yourself. There was a time before April you were normal too. Remember that?" I nod faintly. "Before the drugs, before April, there was you. There was you and you were already great. You don't need anyone or anything to make you any better than you are on your own. Don't you get it yet?"  
  
I laugh softly. "Jesus, Mark. You sound so weird talking like that."  
  
His cheeks darken faintly but he stands firm. "Do you hear me, Rog? Do you understand what I'm telling you?"  
  
I nod and run my hands through my hair, tired and annoyed, but mostly with myself. I stand up and start to head for the door.  
  
"Rog? Where you going?"  
  
"To sleep." I tell him, my hand on the knob.  
  
"Oh." He says. "Don't you want anything to eat? We could order takeout if you want, we've got some..."  
  
"It's fine, Mark. I don't want anything."  
  
He watches me nervously, as I slip out the door. I feel guilty because I know exactly what my hands are itching for.  
  
Stupid, stupid, stupid, you've almost killed yourself now, a voice that sounds like Mark's says in my head. Think of Mimi, think of life, think of what could apparently be yours again if you stop blaming yourself for Mimi's death. Because after all, it wasn't your fault.  
  
Tiny cut near the wrist. The band needed to practice.  
  
Another, up a few inches. No money for AZT.  
  
Trickle of blood down the arm. She never really looked sick.  
  
Larger cut. Should have fucking noticed.  
  
I wipe frantically at the blood staining my arm and the edge of the bandage. I've done it again, and I've promised, and I've told myself, and I've made it count. And fuck it all, I'm bleeding on the floor.  
  
"Mark!" I yell, my voice grating through my throat, forcing its way out of the parched and sore airway. I call his name again, shoving the knife away and clutching my arm close to my body. I didn't mean it this time, I didn't mean it.  
  
"Mark!"  
  
I hear him coming, his footsteps pounding over the creaking floorboards. He comes into the room and kneels down beside me, reaching for my arm. I push his hands away and lay back on the floor. He picks a t-shirt up off of the floor and wraps it around my arm.  
  
"Not again, Rog." He says, exasperated. Angry, frustrated, sad. I stare up at him as he pulls the t-shirt gently away from my skin to examine the damage.  
  
"I don't think they're that deep." He says quietly, relieved. He re- wraps the shirt and looks down at me. His eyes are sad, I know I've disappointed him and his ongoing belief in me. He runs a hand through my hair, his touch cautious. His hand is cold on my skin. He pulls his hand back and helps to move me to my blankets. When he starts to tuck them around me I watch his hands moving, his brow furrowed in the smallest impression of concentration.  
  
"I'm sorry." I say throatily.  
  
He stops for a moment and looks into my eyes. He sighs.  
  
"I know, Rog." He says. He starts to get up. I reach for his arm.  
  
"Will you stay in here tonight?" I ask him. I feel my face burn when he only stares. "I just... I don't want to do it again and I don't think that..."  
  
"Yeah." He says quickly. "Yeah, I'll stay here." He looks around my room. "Where do you want me to stay?"  
  
Under the mattress, they're under the mattress.  
  
"You can have my bed, I just want you here."  
  
"Alright, Rog. I'll be right back."  
  
He leaves and comes back with a blanket, the only one he's left himself, and wearing his coat. He steps over me and lays out his blanket on my bed, lying down on his side, facing me.  
  
"Do you need me to stay awake?" He asks.  
  
I shake my head. I can't lift the mattress if he's on it. I could have before, but not anymore.  
  
"Alright. Goodnight, Roger."  
  
I nod, pulling the blankets tighter around me, feeling the sting of the fresh cuts under the thin cloth around my arm. As I close my eyes, my stomach growls angrily.  
  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 


	5. Your Diet Will Crush Me

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I affiliated with RENT. Story is most definitely rated R and not for the kiddies or close-minded.  
  
Notes: Thanks for the reviews and thanks for reading. You guys rock! I hope you'll all like this chapter. ;)  
  
Chapter 5  
  
-Your Diet Will Crush Me-  
  
In an angry, isolated silence I stare at the bowl of cereal Mark holds out to me.  
  
"I said I'm not hungry." I growl at him, crossing my arms and turning away.  
  
"I don't care if you're not hungry, you need to eat something." He says, with the same sort of menace. "When was the last time you ate?"  
  
I shrug, staring at the wall. "I eat."  
  
"You take handfuls of cereal to last you a week. You're going to eat, now."  
  
He sets the bowl down on the table and grabs my arms, pulling me over to the table. I struggle and almost manage to pull away, but I've exhausted my body so much recently that eventually Mark wins out and I'm forced to sit in a broken chair in front of the bowl. I stare down into it, finding nothing appealing about the soggy little squares and the white liquid that smells just slightly sour. Mark sighs heavily and kneels beside me.  
  
"What is wrong with you?" He asks, his voice less harsh, almost concerned.  
  
I shrug again. I don't try to define anything anymore.  
  
"Why are you punishing yourself? I mean, Rog..." He stops, unsure of how to continue, then looks back up at me. "You're starving yourself."  
  
I avoid meeting his gaze, finding images inside the bowl. Like clouds. Cloudy liquid swirls that churn and make a shallow vortex to the bottom of the bowl, little squares spinning inside. But none of this happens. I ignore the pounding in my head when Mark grabs my arm.  
  
"Did you hear me? I asked if you'd let me take you to a doctor. I mean, this isn't..."  
  
Doctors. Doctors and questions. Doctors ask questions and doctors make judgements. Why did you cut yourself? Accident, accident. Skepticism. Why is your girlfriend here? Disgust, annoyance. Can't go back, can't make me, can't...  
  
"No!" I shout, making him jump. "No, Mark. No doctors. Not again."  
  
"But Roger..."  
  
I jump to my feet, knocking the bowl over, watching the white trails slowly seep away. So much like...  
  
Don't think about it. Don't.  
  
"No, Mark. No doctors. I'm fine. I don't need this." I find myself backing up against a wall, pointing at him. "I don't need you. I don't need, I don't need..."  
  
I know what I need.  
  
No. No! My hands go to my head, raking through my hair as I collapse to the floor. Can't. Mark watches me in silent horror. Sparkle, sparkle. See a line of light on a sharp edge, a glint and then for a moment you're blind. See a line of steel embedded in a limb of flesh. And then for a moment you're saved.  
  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  
  
Mark watches as I stand up. His eyes follow me across the room, follow me to the door of my room, but he makes no sound. Stand in the doorway for a moment, my eyes sweep over my room, then I go in. I kneel beside my mattress and slowly lift it up. One time, one time, I need it. Take one of the blades, sit on the floor. I hold it above my arm. One time, just this once. Just this once how many times? How many times is once?  
  
Fuck. I drop the knife and it falls, the sudden sound startling me.  
  
"Roger?" Mark calls from outside my door. He knocks hesitantly on the door. Once is too many right now, think. Think about it, don't do it. I turn the knife so I'm carefully clutching the blade and I stand up and open the door. Mark looks down at my hand holding the knife, saying nothing. I hold it out, the handle facing him. He doesn't move.  
  
"Take it. Please, get it away from me. I don't care what you do with it, but take it."  
  
Cautiously his hand closes over the handle I let go of my end. I look up at him and he gives me a slight smile before walking away. I collapse against the doorway, sliding down so I'm sitting against the narrow piece of wall. I bring my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them.  
  
Not so bad, not so bad.  
  
But there's four more. Under the mattress, they're under the mattress. I close my eyes. Mimi above, destruction below.  
  
"Roger?" Mark asks gently. He comes over and sits next to me, hesitantly laying a hand on my arm.  
  
"That's good what you did, you know? That's good." He tells me. I almost believe him until my arm starts to ache and I remember the rest of them.  
  
"There's still more of them, Mark." I tell him. "But I can't, I not ready for, I can't fucking do this!"  
  
The grip of his hand becomes tighter. "It's ok, Rog. It's still good, it's a start."  
  
"I want to do it. I want it now. It's like fucking heroin, Mark! Why did I start? What the fuck..." My ability to string a sentence together is failing me. Mark very slowly moves closer and wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling my body against his. I lean into him, letting him hold me, and for a few minutes the cold that's continually pressed around my body disappears.  
  
"You'll be alright, Rog." He tells me gently. "You got through worse than this."  
  
"It doesn't feel like there was anything worse than this."  
  
He laughs softly. "Please. I was there for your withdrawal, Rog. I was there the whole time. That was worse. I know this must feel like shit, but c'mon, it's no big thing for you."  
  
I know he's trying to reassure me. He knows that I need to think something is easy or I won't try it. I nod for him, sure I believe you. I could hope to believe you.  
  
"Are you hungry?" He asks.  
  
"Fuck you." I tell him.  
  
He sighs and pulls his arm back.  
  
"I'm going to make you a sandwich, and you're going to eat part of it. I don't care if you take one bite, but you're going to eat."  
  
I shrug and he stands up and goes to the kitchen. I watch him leaving, I scratch involuntary at an itch on my arm. I look down at the skin I'm scratching and it suddenly seems like a good idea to keep going. I press my fingers down hard against my skin and roughly scrap the nails up and down in one area. A minute later and the skin is raw and sore. I pull my hand away and examine it. Just another way to cause pain for what I'm feeling. But it solves nothing, it's temporary. And it's evidence. I go in my room and pull a sweater over my head and wrap my arms around myself, feeling the chill take me over again. I walk into the kitchen and watch Mark finish my sandwich.  
  
He holds it out to me and I take it and stare at it in my hands indifferently. I know Mark is watching me, refusing to look away or let me leave till I eat part of it. I pull off a corner with two fingers and hold it up to my lips. The crust of the bread feels hard and dry on my tongue, completely foreign and wrong. Whatever he put on it is sliding down my throat feeling slimy and thick. Choking me. Mark watches me, my reaction. I take another little piece and taste the white of the bread, like cotton. I shove the sandwich back at Mark and back away.  
  
"I can't. Don't make me. I can't eat anymore."  
  
He sets it down, looking more concerned than angry, which is not what I had expected.  
  
"So it's not just that you won't, it's that you can't." He says softly.  
  
I shrug. He starts to come over to me and he grabs my hands before I can make my escape and retreat.  
  
"What did you do to yourself?" He asks, incredulous. "Why are you doing this?"  
  
He knows this, we've talked about this. But I think he knows it goes deeper. I think he knows.  
  
"Because it's my fault, Mark!" I yell at him, pulling my hands away.  
  
"What's your fault?"  
  
"That she's dead! It's my fault she's dead!" I'm back against the wall.  
  
He looks completely shocked and almost angry. "Is that what this is about? You think it's your fault that Mimi died?"  
  
"I don't think it is, Mark! I know it is! It was my fault she got so sick, it was my fault she died. If I had paid more fucking attention to her than the band she wouldn't be..."  
  
"Roger!" He yells, forcing me to stop. He moves closer and there's no escape. He takes my hands again.  
  
"Rog, it's not your fault. Mimi was already sick, we all knew that. She knew that too."  
  
"We didn't have any money. She had to quit working when she started to get sick. We didn't have any AZT. I should've fucking gotten a real job so I could take care of her. But I was so sure the band..." I stop and shake my head. That doesn't matter now. "It's my fault. I didn't take care of her. I didn't do enough. And she died because of me."  
  
"Why didn't you tell me you needed money for AZT?" He asks.  
  
I shrug. "We weren't your problem."  
  
"Rog, I would've given everything I had to help either one of you. You know that."  
  
I nod slightly. I do know that. But I don't always want to depend on Mark. I want to be able to fix my fuck-ups without him. But I also know that's hardly possible.  
  
Mark sighs. "Do you believe me? Cause it's not your fault. Ok?"  
  
I shrug. I don't know. A chill sweeps through me everywhere but my hands. Hands that are being clasped tightly by Mark. He smiles at me, a fractured, lopsided grin I've grown fond of over the years. An uneven half smile, tainted by his inability to just be happy. Something I know well enough for the both of us. I let myself fall against his body and he barely catches me enough to return my embrace that I know surprised him. It surprised me too, because I realize this is letting him see exactly how thin I am. With his hands on my back he'll feel the ridges, and he'll realize just how close he can hold me because of the stomach that's not there. And I don't have to care, because I know he does.  
  
We come apart together, his hands still clasping mine. I lean toward him slowly and he watches me, confused. I move all the more closer and let my lips press onto his. I feel his face and body react in surprise, but then he relaxes and his lips open to mine. I let go of his hands and bring mine to his face, letting them trail along his jaw line and neck. His hands find my waist and pull me closer to him. I feel Mark's tongue against my own, the gentle moisture of his mouth. His lips are hot, hot and soft. Another few moments and he slowly pulls away from me.  
  
"Roger," He asks. "What was that?"  
  
I smirk. "It's called a kiss, Marky. You see, when two people..."  
  
He returns the bitter grin. "Ass. But, seriously. I mean, what are you doing?"  
  
I lift one shoulder, then lower it again. "I don't know, Mark. I just, I was cold and..."  
  
"You kissed me because you were cold?"  
  
"Don't act like you didn't like it too!" I yell at him. He flinches and rolls his eyes.  
  
"Will you stop yelling? It's a small place and I'm right here."  
  
I say nothing.  
  
"I'm not saying I didn't like it, or that it didn't mean anything, but I just don't get it."  
  
"You never get it. You don't 'get' anything!"  
  
"Roger, shut up. I just told you to stop yelling. Just calm down."  
  
I grunt at him and cross my arms over my chest.  
  
"What didn't I get? What am I supposed to take from that?"  
  
"I don't know, Mark! I don't even know what it was. It just, happened. Just forget it, I guess. Forget it."  
  
"No, Roger. I can't just forget you kissing me. I mean, that wasn't just a kiss. You meant something by it and so did I. I don't know what, but there was something there, you know?"  
  
I shrug and he gets pissed.  
  
"Dammit, Roger! Don't shut me out!"  
  
"Don't yell." I mock him. "I'm right here."  
  
He rolls his eyes and starts to walk away.  
  
"I'm sorry." I breathe.  
  
"What?" He asks harshly.  
  
"I said, I'm sorry!" I yell.  
  
He laughs bitterly. "What do we do now?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
He comes back over to me and takes my hands, pulling me to him. He looks up at me for a moment, then goes up on his toes to kiss me. The only reaction that makes sense is to kiss him back with the same force and connection I felt earlier.  
  
And for another few moments, I'm warm.  
  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 


	6. You Have Broken Through My Armour

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I affiliated with RENT. Story is most definitely rated R and not for the kiddies or close-minded.  
  
Notes: This chappie focuses more on Mark's understanding of the situation and their relationship than what is actually happening to Roger. Next chapter will get back to that, but this is quite important as well. Thanks as usual for the reviews, you guys fucking rock! ;)  
  
Chapter 6  
  
–You Have Broken Through My Armour-  
  
Maureen is here again, yelling at Mark. I'm not sure why yet. I push some cereal around on top of my guitar case and try to listen, but even through the paper-thin walls I don't know what she's saying. I can't concentrate on the words. I hear a barrage of accusatory sounds, rising in pitch, falling in rhythm, but I can't seem to make sense of them.  
  
My bone-hand flexes it's long digits, the skin taunt around the knuckles, sagging over the rest of each finger. I drum them against my guitar case, making my own rhythm to Maureen's words and Mark's attempts to defend himself. I had been out there earlier, sitting on the couch, when Maureen came. She stared at me for a while, stared, then dragged Mark into his bedroom and started yelling. And I came in here.  
  
My eyes fall onto the broken clock near my bed. Its time telling abilities are permanently 3 hours and 4 minutes ahead, but it's enough to tell me that over an hour has gone by.  
  
I sigh, and using the wall to brace myself, stand up. Maybe if I can get closer I'll know what they're talking about. I almost fall by the door, but manage to keep my footing. I twist the knob, pulling the door open and head out to stand by Mark's door. It's open slightly, just enough to see Mark gaping at Maureen who's glaring at Mark like he's the biggest idiot on the planet.  
  
"Mo, are you sure? I mean he's depressed and shit but..."  
  
"Marky! I've been there! I know what it looks like and I saw it in him last time I was here! And I don't think you're taking it seriously!"  
  
"Maureen, he's a guy. I mean, guys don't..."  
  
"Yes they do! And Roger is anorexic!"  
  
I lean against the wall and slide down till I'm sitting. I pull my knees into my chest and wrap my arms around them. Shut up, Maureen. Just shut up. Mark can't know. Stop telling him. I don't want him to understand. Mostly because I know he won't. He doesn't. I tried to make him understand.  
  
Maureen looks past Mark suddenly and sees me. I don't bother to retreat, I know I'm caught. Captured by the enemy. POW in my own apartment.  
  
"Roger?" She asks gently. Far too gently. Not Maureen at all, and worlds more intimidating than Mark ever could be.  
  
I say nothing.  
  
She comes over to me and kneels beside me.  
  
"You have a problem, sweetie." She says. I glare at her and roll my eyes. Not from you. I don't care if you know. I look past her at Mark who has the most peculiar look in his eyes.  
  
I tune out her next words, choosing instead to continue to stare at Mark, who has been avoiding me for six days. His gaze is full of shock, fear and what I hope isn't pity. I almost prefer when Mark tells me to stop making an ass of myself, as opposed to his consistent protection and forgiveness. His gaze slips from me and he looks down at his hands. For a moment, I hate him.  
  
"Roger? Are you listening?" Maureen asks, in that same horrible voice. It's not her. It's a new drama, a new character she can play. Concerned Maureen. Loving, delicate, 'I've been there before' Maureen. Not her at all. I can realize that Mark doesn't know Maureen at all. She always acts in front of him. She doesn't want him to know what she's really like. He knows her as Goddess Maureen, Diva Maureen. Drama Incarnated Maureen. He doesn't know Real Maureen, who used to try to talk to me about how frustrating Mark can be, and who used to tell me at four in the morning when I came in that heroin was bad for me. And who told me last week that I should eat something and talk to Mark. She's the only Maureen I'll actively respond to. I don't play her little game.  
  
She sighs dramatically and closes the door to Mark's room, leaving him alone inside. When she looks back at me her expression has changed. No act, no character. My friend who's done stupid shit in the past. Just like me.  
  
"Why are you doing this, Roger?" She asks.  
  
I shrug. "I'm not hungry."  
  
"Bullshit you're not hungry. And I know you're not trying to be thin. So why are you punishing yourself?"  
  
"I don't deserve this Maureen. I don't deserve you trying to help me." I laugh bitterly. "And I really don't deserve him trying to help me." I feel my face contort into a scowl. "I don't deserve him. At least he seems to think so."  
  
I hadn't meant to say that. I hadn't meant to give myself away, but Maureen doesn't notice my slip. I don't think she knows what I meant.  
  
"Of course you do. Don't be an ass, Roger. And don't do this to yourself. You have to let Mark help you. You have to let me help you. You'll die if you don't."  
  
"I'm going to die anyway." I mutter, looking away.  
  
"Oh fuck off!" Maureen yells. "It's always that! It's the fucking AIDS cop- out! I'm going to die anyway so I might as well waste any time I have left being stupid!"  
  
I say nothing, watching her like she's the crazy one as she yells at me. She rolls her eyes and drops to my side again.  
  
"He doesn't get it, Maureen." I tell her. "He said it's no big deal. All of it. He said I can handle it."  
  
"Well, you can handle it." She says. "But he's wrong. It is a big deal. It's a huge deal." She pauses carefully. "It might be like a rehab-sort of big deal."  
  
"No." I say, looking up at her. "I won't go and you can't make me. I'm not going to a fucking hospital."  
  
"Roger." She says, exasperated. She pulls a mirror out of her purse. "Look at yourself. Really look. Just in your face you can see it. You look like death."  
  
She's right. My eyes are bruised and bloodshot, rimmed with red. My skin looks sallow, a sick sort of yellow gray. My cheekbones have never stuck out and my jaw has never been as defined. I see the missing skin in my cheeks, the tired and sick expression in my eyes and I know I might finally succeed in an ultimate mission if I keep going on. I hand the mirror back to Maureen, but I can't bring myself to look at her. I feel the weight of her eyes when she gives me one last long look and reopens Mark's door. He's standing in the same place, the same look of hopelessness and fear.  
  
"Take care of him, Marky. He needs you to take care of him." Soap Opera Maureen. Melodrama and bad acting. The wrong words are the focus, the meaning lost behind an overdone story line. Her fingers trail over my arm, the last remnant of the Maureen it seems only I know and then she's gone. She has another performance scheduled.  
  
I stare at Mark. I watch him come over to me and drop down beside me. I watch his hand reach for mine and his fingers, warm and soft, burn their way into a hold on my hand.  
  
"I'm sorry." He says, carefully. "That I wasn't taking you seriously."  
  
I shrug. "Whatever."  
  
"And." He continues. "I'm sorry that I kissed you back."  
  
I find his eyes and glare into them. "I'm not."  
  
My contempt surprises him. "Well Roger, you were..."  
  
"No I wasn't, Mark. I was perfectly sane. I didn't just want somebody at that moment, I wanted you."  
  
"Why?" He asks, incredulous. "What have I done to make you want me?"  
  
I don't answer him. I pull him closer by the hand that he's holding onto so tightly, and kiss him again. I hate that he's avoided me, and I hate what I must look like to him and how desperate I must seem. He deepens the kiss before I can, his arm going around me and pulling my body closer to his. He runs his tongue along the inside of my lip, melding his mouth onto mine until his taste is all I can focus on.  
  
When he pulls away, I still feel the gentle massage of his kisses, the warm press of his hand on my back.  
  
"Roger." He says, his voice quiet and tired, almost afraid. "What are you trying to do? What are you trying to start?"  
  
I can only shake my head. I don't know and don't understand either. I move closer to him and nestle myself against his body. He wraps his arms around me again and holds me close. I can hear the gentle beating of his heart, feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, deep and easy. So calm. And the pressure of his hands, the soft hands that to me are always warm, is strong. He's smaller than me, but right now he has the power. He could break me in an instant by moving away, but I know he won't.  
  
"Are you hungry?" He asks gently.  
  
More than anything. Hunger has never bitten me more sharply. I'd never thought about it as much. I want to cry with him holding me, but I don't. I nod and choke out a 'yes'.  
  
He moves away from me and helps me stand, and sits me at the table.  
  
"What do you want?" He asks. "I'll make you anything."  
  
"Fuck Mark," I tell him. "You can't cook and you know it."  
  
He laughs softly. "I'll get you anything."  
  
I shrug. "Whatever there is. Please make it small." I tell him quietly.  
  
He goes into the kitchen and I hear him moving shit around. I can hear his worry and his desperation. He wants to help me, but doesn't know if he can. I don't know if he can, but I'm honoured that he'd try.  
  
He comes out a few minutes later with half a loaf of bread. I laugh at him, but in all honesty, it's a good start. He pulls a piece out and to my relief rips the crust off of one side. He holds it out to me and I stare at it, feeling the fear and apprehension grab hold of me.  
  
"C'mon, Rog. It's ok." He says, but this time I know he understands. I take the bread from him and pull off a little piece. I let it soften in my mouth, chew slowly and carefully swallow. Mark stands behind me, rubbing my back and shoulders and telling me that I'll be all right. I'm an addict all over again. I'm waking up screaming for him in the middle of the night, sweating and cold in my bed. I'm threatening him, and hurting him and yelling at him, and he takes it all with an exasperated sort of patience and tells me that I will be all right.  
  
I make my way slowly through half of the piece of bread, then hand it back to Mark. He smiles at me, tells me I did good, and puts it away. When he's back at my side his fingers rake through my hair and he lays a hesitant kiss on my forehead. His smile is sad, scared and worried.  
  
"You look tired." He says softly. "You should sleep."  
  
He takes my hands and pulls me off of the chair and toward my room. I stop at the foot of my blankets and stare down at them.  
  
"Stay with me." I find myself whispering before I'm aware of it.  
  
His grip on my hands tightens. He nods slightly, waits. My eyes land on my bed. Mimi. My Mimi. Shake my head, try to block out the image. Have to remember that Mimi's gone. I move slowly toward the bed, see Mark watching me. I let my fingers trail over the mattress, and then I slowly lower myself down onto it. Mark sits beside me and I feel the gentle pressure from his fingers pushing me down onto the mattress. I lay back and he pulls the blanket around us, taking one off of the floor to lay over this one. When he lies down beside me, he reaches for me but I pull away.  
  
"Roger." He says. "You don't have to be the strong one now." He smiles, an expression of more kindness than pleasure. "You're allowed to be weak once in awhile, you know."  
  
I cautiously inch closer to him under the blankets, allowing his arms to pull me into a cautious embrace that fills me with an incomparable feeling of warmth and comfort. He kisses my face lightly, his lips a soft little touch against my skin.  
  
"Let me help you." He whispers against my ear. I nod into his shoulder, letting him hold me, his steady breathing and rhythmic heartbeat rocking me to sleep.  
  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 


	7. My Insides Will Look Like War

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I affiliated with RENT. Story is most definitely rated R and not for the kiddies or close-minded.  
  
Notes: Thanks for all the totally sexy reviews, they make my life. I love that you love it. ;)  
  
Chapter 7  
  
–My Insides Will Look Like War-  
  
Retreat. Retreat far back into my own mind, thoughts mixing and developing, finally settling on the unparalleled thrill of watching red rivers run down my arms. I rub at my arms, sore from healing, and feel a terrible quake of need course through my body. For the first time in two years I desperately want a hit. Anything to make the pain of not hurting go away.  
  
Besides this, a steady diet of nothing is killing me. I feel my stomach, empty and hollow, resting uselessly against my insides. Despite the little pieces Mark can convince me to choke down, which usually end up swimming in stomach bile and blood not much later, the signs of starvation are starting to set in. My skin is gray, dark and sick looking. The bruises under my eyes are darker, painful if I touch them, and my cheeks are sunken in and bruised as well, my cheekbones jutting out from my face at a very sharp, unhealthy angle. I spend hours in front of the mirror at night or when Mark isn't home, staring at every fault and wondering what the final bliss of death could be like.  
  
The usual dizziness and sense of nausea sets in and I collapse on the bathroom floor, leaning against the wall with my arms wrapped around my stomach. There's a need, and a want to do some damage. But there's also a need and a want to not hurt Mark again. I take one of my hands away and slip it into my pocket, my fingers closing around my pocketknife. Slowly I pull it out, flicking it open.  
  
Just once. Close my eyes. How many times is once? Just one, just once. Watch the light catch the blade and I rotate the knife and watch the light reflect onto the wall. Just once.  
  
I hold the blade to my skin and press down. Not far enough to bleed, but enough to feel. Through the tiny square of an open window I hear someone shout outside and the knife slips and I cut. A thick line of blood wells up a moment later and then it's heroin.  
  
Shouldn't do this to myself. Small cut by the wrist.  
  
Shouldn't do this to Mark. Larger one above the elbow.  
  
I want to stop, but I can't now. It's been days and the burn has been there, the pain has been there and the need has been there. Then came the want and I was done for. I'm trembling. Bleeding and trembling. I drop the knife, run my fingers through my hair, feeling the blood dripping onto my clothes, into my hair. My body starts to shake with horrible choked cries and sobbing and I pull my knees against my body and hold my head and cry. I don't know how long it is before Mark comes home.  
  
"Roger?" I hear him call worriedly, I know he can hear me. He pounds on the bathroom door.  
  
"Open the door, Roger." He yells, once he's tried the knob. I'd forgotten I'd locked it. I can't move. I can't move until Mark is near me, telling me I'll be all right. I can't believe it until he tells me.  
  
"Roger, open the door!" His voice cracks with the force of his scream and I can't move. I hear him kicking the door, slamming his body against it. The door creaks, groaning from the force, but doesn't break. I reach a hand up slowly, my fingers brushing against the knob weakly. I turn the handle enough that the lock clicks open and Mark is at my side a moment later, angry and worried. He picks up the knife, sending me a glare that forces me to cower against the wall. I pull my arms away from him when he reaches for them.  
  
"Don't touch me. Don't touch me, Mark." I say weakly, holding my arms against my body.  
  
"Oh fuck off, Roger, let me see." He grabs my hands so he can see the damage. He sighs audibly, but his anger fades slightly. He grabs some toilet paper and presses it to one of my worst cuts.  
  
"You shouldn't do that, Marky." I tell him.  
  
He shrugs. "I'm careful. Don't worry, Rog." He says gently. His anger has faded considerably.  
  
He cleans my cuts for me, wiping the blood away until it clots, giving me band-aids for the worst two, then sits against the wall beside me and puts an arm around my shoulders. He doesn't say anything for a long time, then he sighs loudly.  
  
"You didn't eat anything today, did you?" He asks.  
  
"I can't if you're not here."  
  
"Roger, I'm not always going to be here. You have to learn how to eat on your own."  
  
I shake my head at him but say nothing.  
  
"Roger," He says quietly, very slowly. "I think you might need more help than I can give you."  
  
I'm shaking my head before he even finishes.  
  
"No, Mark. Please, no. I can't go, I can't."  
  
"Why not?" He asks gently, his hand rubbing my shoulder, the warmth flooding through me.  
  
"They don't care like you do. They can't help me. If you scream there, no one comes to help you."  
  
"Roger..."  
  
"I can't be alone, I need you. I need someone. I need to scream, and I need to feel like someone is listening."  
  
He doesn't say anything for a long time. I hate myself.  
  
"Alright, Roger." He says quietly. He pulls me closer to him and sets down the pocketknife to wrap his arms around my shaking body. I fall against his chest and let him hold me.  
  
When he pulls away from me I reach for the knife. He watches me pick it up and move to put it in my pocket.  
  
"Give me the knife, Roger." Mark says. His eyes tell me I don't have a choice. I stare back evenly, drop the knife in my pocket and pull my hand out. He narrows his eyes, but says nothing. I try to push past him out of the bathroom, but he grabs my arm. I let out an animalistic cry of pain, which he ignores as his hand dives into my pocket and pulls out the pocketknife.  
  
He walks out of the room, leaving me rubbing my bruised arm. I try to be angry with him, but I can't. I'm pushed into apathy. I shrug my shoulders and head to my bedroom. When I get there Mark is standing in the middle of the room waiting for me.  
  
"Where are they, Roger?" He asks.  
  
I shake my head. He can't take them yet. I'm not ready to let go. I shake my head again, shrinking down into my niche next to my guitar case.  
  
"Roger..."  
  
I ignore him and pull my knees up to my chest, then hide my face in them. I hear him drop down to his knees in front of me. He lays his hands on my shoulders and I look up at him.  
  
"Tell me. I can't help you unless you want to be helped."  
  
"I do," I say miserably.  
  
"Then tell me where you keep them. I don't want you to hurt yourself again."  
  
"You can't stop me." I say harshly.  
  
"Then maybe you should be at a hospital." He replies, with just as much venom, pushing me backwards against the wall.  
  
The sick feeling of fear clenches in my stomach and I shake my head at him, looking up into his eyes.  
  
"No, no please..."  
  
"Where?"  
  
I gesture vaguely toward my bed. He looks back over his shoulder, then back at me.  
  
"They're under the mattress." I tell him softly.  
  
Mark goes across the room and lifts up one side of the mattress. One of them catches the light and sends little streams of light about the room. Mark picks one of them up, then throws it back down. He shakes his head and drops the mattress and leaves. When he comes back he has a plastic bag that he puts them in. He pulls the pocketknife out of his pocket and puts it in the bag as well. He gestures to me.  
  
"What?"  
  
"C'mon, you're going to throw these away."  
  
"I am?"  
  
"Yeah." He grabs my wrists and pulls me up to stand. He takes my hand and I follow him out of the room. He doesn't stop walking until we're at a dumpster a few blocks away. He hands me the bag.  
  
"Throw them out." He says.  
  
I give him one last hopeless look, but when I'm met with no emotion or pity I lift up the lid on the dumpster and throw the bag in, feeling part of my life slip with it. When they're gone Mark smiles at me and takes my hand again. He wraps his other arm around my waist and pulls me close. I feel his lips brush against my cheek.  
  
"Good." He says. "That's good."  
  
I shake my head at him, but say nothing. He tightens his grip on my waist and starts us walking back to the loft. When we're back he lays me down in my bed, tucks my blankets around me.  
  
"I'm proud of you." He tells me, with a generous smile. I feel his fingers in my hair and he gently kisses my forehead.  
  
"I'm so fucked up."  
  
He lets out a choked sort of laugh. "No, no you're not. Well, you are, but that doesn't mean anything."  
  
"What does that mean?" I ask him.  
  
He shakes his head, laughing. "I have no idea. I just, well you make me nervous sometimes."  
  
"Why? 'Cause I'm fucked up?"  
  
"No." He says quietly. "Because of... well, what's been happening."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Neither one of us says anything for a long time. Mark lies down beside me over the blankets.  
  
"What is happening?" He asks, in an almost shy voice.  
  
I shrug, not looking at him. "I don't know."  
  
"You kissed me first." He says.  
  
"You kissed back."  
  
Silence.  
  
"Well," He says. "I know that I liked it. I liked kissing you, I want to kiss you more." I hear his voice shake slightly at the end, knowing he's nervous as he always is while emotionally vulnerable. For once it's me that could break him in an instant, with a few words, but I won't.  
  
"Yeah." I tell him. "Yeah, me too."  
  
He sighs loudly, and I laugh at him under my breath. My stomach chooses this moment to make a very inconvenient rumble of hunger. The realization of what is happening to me returns and our relief and pleasure is overcome with a sick sense of reality.  
  
"Want me to get you something?" He asks a moment later. I nod slightly, hoping he saw the subtle motion. He gets up and when he returns he's holding a bowl of soap. I stare at it nervously and he smiles at me.  
  
"It's only half full, it's not too hot." He says gently, seeing my discomfort.  
  
He sits beside me on the bed and I sit up and lean against the wall. I look down into the bowl full of red liquid.  
  
"We had tomato soup?" I ask him, unbelieving.  
  
"I bought it earlier." He says with a smirk. Bastard. He knows I love tomato soup.  
  
Mark holds a small spoonful up to me and after giving him an indignant look for feeding me, I take it. I feel the warm liquid slid down my throat and it feels good, better than it's been in long time. I still don't eat very much of it, not even half of what's in the bowl, but Mark still kisses my temple and grins at me. He puts the rest of the soup back in the kitchen and comes back to me.  
  
"Feel any better?" He asks.  
  
My stomach is knotting itself tightly against digesting the soup, but I try to ignore the sick feeling that is growing and I nod at him. He smiles again and slips under the covers beside me, moving close and resting his head against my shoulder. I feel my lips curve slightly upwards and I close my eyes.  
  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  
  
Notes continued: I love tomato soup, so Roger does too. ;) hope you all liked! Thanks again for the reviews! 


	8. I Wish That Someone Would Hold Me

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I affiliated with RENT. Story is most definitely rated R and not for the kiddies or close-minded.  
  
Notes: sorry it took so long guys, I couldn't decide what to do next here, and had completely incredible inspiration for a couple original stories which are shaping up nicely. So sorry, but here's two new chappies, they sort of go together. ;)  
  
Chapter 8  
  
-I Wish That Someone Would Hold Me...-  
  
My fingers ache from clutching the sides of the toilet, the tips and knuckles sore and white. I have never found myself begging for another human presence more in my life. My stomach feels like it's ripping itself in two. I use one shaking hand to wipe the sweat away from my brow. I reach to wipe at my mouth, but instead lean over the toilet again and throw up the rest of my insides. The water is red, bubbling with the fire and pain it took to throw it up, and swimming with chunks of what could be lunch. My whole body is shaking.  
  
All I can do when I finally empty myself is lay on my side, curled up against the wall. I can't stop the tears and they're hot and salty, blurring my vision and burning my skin and eyes. I don't fucking deserve to cry.  
  
I wrap my arms around myself and shake. My hair falls into my eyes and I close them and wait. Mark and Maureen will get here eventually. They'll be here eventually and they'll help me. I'll have someone here. I hold myself tighter. Not that they should.  
  
They should just leave me the fuck alone. I didn't start throwing up like this until they made me start eating. I was never this sick until they made me start eating. My skin is blistering in pain from the lack of air my blood is receiving. I haven't cut myself in two weeks. I can't, I have nothing to cut with. Mark hid everything sharp and he thew away my knives. I have nothing.  
  
No. Mark made me throw away my knives. Instead of fucking letting me deal with it, he fucking took over. I cough and even though it's weak, my throat burns and I'm left sore. I should be hating him for all of this, it's all his fault.  
  
But I can't. I can't hate him because I know he's trying to help me. I know he doesn't want me to die. And I know I will if I stop eating again. But this can't fucking be healthy. Throwing up chunks of your guts on a Saturday morning after eating some fucking crackers? I fucked myself up. I've fucked up again. It's all I'm good at, I guess. It's all I've ever done.  
  
The door clicks and I whimper in anticipation. I hear Mark call my name and I can hear Maureen's softer footsteps enter the loft. Maureen pushes on the bathroom door and I hear her gasp when she sees me.  
  
"Marky! Marky come here!"  
  
She drops down beside me on the floor and I feel her soft little hands pressing on my shoulder. She runs her fingers through my hair and pushes it out of my eyes.  
  
"You ok, sweetie?" She asks, her lower lip sticking out in a pout. Melodrama Maureen.  
  
"Don't fuck around, Maureen." I croak at her, swatting her hand away with my remaining strength. Mark comes over and gently pushes her aside. He reaches for my hand, strokes my hair.  
  
"Are you ok?" He asks me. "What happened?"  
  
"Threw up." I tell him. "Threw up lots."  
  
"Oh." He pulls me up to a sitting position, leaning me against the wall. I manage to hold myself up with Maureen's support. He picks up some toilet paper and wipes my mouth, then the sweat from my face. He touches my face gently and leans forward and kisses my forehead.  
  
"You'll be alright." He says. "You're alright now."  
  
I sniff and look away from him. Sometimes I can't face him when shit like this happens. Knowing Mark doesn't fuck things up like I do, and wondering what he's thinking of me when I do can be overwhelming. It's hard to be attached to somebody so flawless. April saw me at my worst, but fuck, she looked the same way. I was always sober around Mimi, and if I hadn't been she'd been there before. Sometimes it's even easier to look Maureen in the eye. At least I know she makes mistakes. At least I know she's not fucking perfect. I cast a bitter glance at Mark that he misses because he's looking at Maureen. It's easier when someone knows how you feel.  
  
Maureen smiles at me and for possibly the first time, breaks her act in front of Mark.  
  
"Why don't you come lay down somewhere other than the bathroom floor?" She helps me stand up as she says this and I lean my weight against her. It's not hard for her to manage, I probably weigh less than she does. Or at least close to her own weight.  
  
She lays me down on the mattress in my room and runs her fingers through my hair. She wrinkles her nose.  
  
"Your shirt is all sweaty. You want me to get you another one?"  
  
Without thinking, I nod. She picks up another sweater and brings it over to me. Without thinking, I sit up and pull my wet shirt over my head. I catch her eye as I'm unfurling the new shirt.  
  
"What?" I ask to her horrified stare. Immediately I cover myself with the shirt, not even bothering to put it on. "Don't look at me. Go away."  
  
"Roger, you're really thin." She says stupidly. "I thought you've been eating."  
  
"Yeah and throwing it all up." I say bitterly.  
  
"That's not healthy." She says, looking away, at the floor.  
  
"I fucking know that. I'm not doing it on purpose, Maureen."  
  
Mark comes in a moment later, catching me as I try to put the shirt on.  
  
"Jesus, Roger." He whispers, looking at me. I pull the shirt down over my bones. So much for Mark can't know. Mark knows, Mark knows. I shiver.  
  
"I'm sorry." I find myself saying.  
  
They exchange a look. Maureen keeps her eyes on the floor when she talks.  
  
"Roger, I think you might need more help than..."  
  
"I've already heard it from Mark. I don't need to hear it from you."  
  
"Roger you need help!" She says loudly, locking her eyes with mine.  
  
"I thought you would help me." I look at them desperately. "You said you would help me!"  
  
"There's only so much we can do, Rog." Mark tells me gently. "I can't take care of you. You're getting sicker." He closes his eyes and lets his chin fall to his chest. "I don't want to see you die. I want you to get better."  
  
"You don't want me here." I tell them bitterly, standing up. "You don't! You want me to die there. You're sending me away to die! You don't fucking care!"  
  
Maureen tries to grab my arms but I move away from her.  
  
"You don't care, you don't care." I fall into my niche, pulling my knees up to my chest and rocking myself back and forth. My shoulders shake with silent tears that don't fall and I shiver from the cold that's not there. Cold that I've created.  
  
"Roger you're going to die!" Mark yells. "You're going to die if you don't get help." He kneels beside me and tries to take my hand. I push him away.  
  
"Fuck off, Mark. You promised me, you promised."  
  
"Roger you're going to go whether you want to or not. But I don't want to force you."  
  
"Then don't fucking do it, Mark. Don't send me there." I look up to him, hoping he understands the desperation, the fear. How they ignore that you're a person, how they like to pretend you're a statistic, you're a disease, you can be cured but can't be talked to. You're incurable so you're filth. Hurt by healing, heal through hurt, it all feels the fucking same and I fucking hate all of it.  
  
"Don't, don't please." I whimper, knowing I'm not convincing him. Knowing I'm failing.  
  
He looks like he's about to cry, Maureen already is. She looks away so the curly blonde curtain hides her face, but I know she is.  
  
"I don't want to, Roger. I wouldn't, I promise I wouldn't, but I can't lose you yet. I'm not ready to lose you yet."  
  
"What if I'm ready to be lost?" I hadn't meant to say it out loud, and I regret it when I realize I do because Mark looks struck.  
  
He just shakes his head. "Joanne's letting us borrow her car tomorrow. We're going to take you there, ok?"  
  
I just stare at the floor. I have nothing else to say to him.  
  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  
  
Notes Continued: mean old Marky. Lol. Oh well. There's still one more new one! 


	9. Wrap Their Arms Around A Shrinking Someb...

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I affiliated with RENT. Story is most definitely rated R and not for the kiddies or close-minded.  
  
Chapter 9  
  
-Wrap Their Arms Around A Shrinking Somebody-  
  
I sit between Mark and Maureen. They answer the questions, they give me hesitant, apologetic looks. I just glare.  
  
"What is your relationship to the patient?"  
  
"Close friend." Says Maureen.  
  
"Same." Says Mark.  
  
"Boyfriend." Corrects Maureen. Over time she's sort of figured the whole thing out. She's more comfortable about it than we are.  
  
Mark glares at her. The doctor doesn't seem to notice. He writes something down.  
  
"We usually treat women for anorexia." He says. "We only have one other male patient."  
  
"So?" I say loudly, shocking them all.  
  
"Just making conversation." The doctor says. I fix my eyes on his bald spot, trying to feed the fire in my eyes powerful enough to burn through him and make him feel worthless.  
  
"How are you paying for this?" The doctor asks.  
  
Mark takes a deep breath. Maureen calmly pulls a check out of her pocket.  
  
"It's from Joanne." She says. "She wanted to help a little bit, give you time to get a job or whatever."  
  
Mark looks touched and relieved. Maureen hands it to the doctor.  
  
"This is enough for about one month. We can discuss additional payment later."  
  
There is silence save the scratching of the pen on the paper. I watch it writing out my fate.  
  
"Allergies? Medical history?"  
  
He looks at me, but Mark answers.  
  
"He's HIV positive."  
  
The doctor nods, writes it down. When he looks up again he points with his pen to my arms, I had pushed the sleeves up because of the heat in the office.  
  
"Where are those all from?"  
  
No one answers him. I return his cool gaze, glaring furiously.  
  
"I did it." I tell him.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because it feels good."  
  
He nods, writes it down.  
  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  
  
"This is your room." The nurse says, showing me a small box of white with two beds. "You're sharing with Adam."  
  
"Great." I don't fucking care. I gaze sullenly around the room, wishing Mark and Maureen hadn't left.  
  
She shows me around the rest of the hospital, all the places I'm allowed to go, then leaves me back in my room. The bed bothers me. It's on a frame and it's hard and thin. It's not a mattress on the floor. It's a fucking hospital bed.  
  
A thin teenage boy in jeans and a stretched out Van Halen shirt wanders in.  
  
"Are you Roger?" He asks.  
  
I ignore him. He's not worth my time. He's thin, not really sick at all, nowhere like what I am.  
  
"Why are you here?" He asks.  
  
"Why do you think?" I growl.  
  
"You bulimic? Ano? What do you do?"  
  
"Fuck off." I say bitterly, turning away.  
  
He shrugs. I catch sight of his arms. Little scratches. Like a fading sense of doubt. I resist the urge to take my shirt off. To show him what it all really looks like. It's like when I tried to go to rehab once. I tried to go, but I couldn't take the other patients. Possibly even more than the doctors.  
  
Addiction is not glam. It's not something to be admired or aspired to. Most of the people there were little rich kids. Poor little girls whose parents had caught them snorting coke. I laughed at them. They'd never seen someone who'd done so much coke they'd worn holes in their nose. They'd never seen someone's life ruined by one hit of acid. And they'd never seen tracks like mine.  
  
I hated them all. I never once felt sorry for them, or understood why they were there. I don't feel sorry for this kid, and the skinny little girls I saw on my way in, I don't feel for them either. None of these kids are half dead. None of them spend hours curled up on the floor of the bathroom laying in their own vomit and fucking crying from the pain.  
  
I don't care that they want to be skinny like the models. I don't care that they couldn't get a date because their size was two digits instead of one. It's not cool to fuck yourself up, and once they've actually done it, they'll know.  
  
I take off my sweater, only my thin little white t-shirt on underneath. Adam stares at my arms, his eyes drift up and over my body. He doesn't say anything, but he leaves a moment later. Maybe there is some good in this. Stop being stupid, you dumb kids. Stop before you become someone like me.  
  
I throw the sweater down on top of the bag of clothes I brought with me. A nurse comes to the door and looks around the room, then at me. Before I can ask her what she wants, she's gone. I walk out of the room and find my way to a main room. There's a TV no one's watching. A couple girls are playing poker for jewelry. Adam is talking to another girl adamantly. When he sees me, he stops for a moment and looks away, then continues talking to the girl, but in a more subdued manner. I sit on an empty couch looking around me. This is fucking stupid. I wish Mark was here.  
  
Lunchtime comes. I don't move until they tell me I have to. They try to feed me but I don't want it. A sweet nurse with a nice face is negotiating with me but I just keep shaking my head. I don't want it. I want Mark to be here. I'm not eating until Mark is here.  
  
I don't know when they'll come, I don't even know if they can. But I've never wanted him near me more in my life. I go back to my room and sit on the bed. I draw my knees up to my chest and rest my head on them. I've never been more miserable. I feel sick, but not as sick as I do when I eat. My stomach pushes around inside with empty boredom. I ignore it.  
  
Adam comes in later. He sits down on his bed and tries to avoid looking at me.  
  
"What?" I ask him harshly, when he won't stop his charade.  
  
He shrugs. "What the fuck happened to you?" He asks.  
  
"Life."  
  
"Life didn't do that to me."  
  
"Because you're some stupid kid from the suburbs with delusions about what's glamorous and cool."  
  
"I am cool." He says stubbornly.  
  
"You're a fucking idiot." I tell him. "You think you have a problem? You don't know anything about problems."  
  
He stands up. "I have plenty of problems. You don't know me. You don't know anything about me."  
  
"I know enough to know you're full of shit." I look over at him. "Just sit down. What are you going to do?"  
  
He clenches his fists. "I have problems."  
  
I roll my eyes. "What, you don't get along with mommy and daddy? I'll tell you a secret kid, no one gets along with their parents."  
  
"No..." He says weakly, under his breath.  
  
I lay back on my bed. "Just leave me alone. Don't fuck with me all right? But do yourself a favor and stop trying to destroy yourself. It's really not all it's cracked up to be."  
  
He doesn't say anything, but leaves the room a few minutes later. I close my eyes and think of Mark. I can admit I love him. I can admit that I want him with me right now. That I don't want to be here. All I want is to feel his arms around me and hear him tell me it's all right. All I want is to sink into this bed and never wake up. But I'll have to take what I can get. I pull the cover over my body and try to sleep.  
  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  
  
Notes: I've got a little research to do, so it'll take a little while for another chapter. But definitely not more than a week. I just have to budget my time. I've got a lot of shit to do this week. 


	10. Hold Me In Your Arms, I Want To Be Your ...

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I affiliated with RENT. Story is most definitely rated R and not for the kiddies or close-minded.  
  
Notes: sorry this took so long, I've got a lot of shit to deal with and not a lot of time to deal with it in. well anyway, enjoy this. Uh... Roger's weight loss amount is taken from an online article I read a while ago, happened upon it on Monday again and stole the guy's weight and whatever. Well then, have fun. I'll try to be quicker next time. ;)  
  
Chapter 10  
  
-Hold Me In Your Arms, I Want To Be Your Only Posession-  
  
Two days into this bullshit they take me out of group therapy. I wouldn't stop attacking the skinny little girls when they'd cry over two pounds they'd gained the day before and how fat it made them feel. They cried because they were getting better and it pissed me off. I have my own therapist now, and I hate her just as much. She's condescending, and just generally mean.  
  
"Why are you anorexic, Roger?" She asks, folding her hands over her desk.  
  
I glare at her in silence, hating the way the light reflects off of her glasses, hating the strand of hair that has escaped from the rest that's tied up neatly. Mark hasn't come to visit me. I start to hate him too. I wrap my arms around myself and glare.  
  
"Why do you cut your arms?" She tries, gets no reaction.  
  
She sighs and opens a folder on her desk.  
  
"You do realize, Roger." She says. "That you currently weigh 113 pounds. The normal weight for someone of your stature is about 180, at least."  
  
"I'm thin." I tell her angrily.  
  
"You're killing yourself." She takes off her glasses and rubs the bridge of her nose then looks back up at me. "Is that what you want?"  
  
"Maybe." I snap, staring at the floor.  
  
"Have you considered suicide before?" She asks.  
  
"Fuck off."  
  
She sighs. "I see we're not getting anywhere today." She puts her glasses back on and narrows her eyes. "You will talk to me, Roger. I determine how long you stay here, and which medications you are put on. We're starting you on anti-depressant today. I think it will help with your emotions a little bit."  
  
She frowns at me. "I would also like to consider family therapy, since you obviously don't respond well to groups."  
  
I scowl at her.  
  
"Is there anyone in your immediate family we can call to attend a counseling session?"  
  
"Mark is the only one that knows."  
  
She gives me a rather nasty smile. "Yes. Well, the family sessions are for immediate family only. As are visitations for the first two weeks."  
  
"So that's why he hasn't come yet? Cause you won't let him?"  
  
"I don't think that would be wise. Would you please sit down?"  
  
"No! Mark is my family!" I sit down heavily. "I'm not eating till I see him."  
  
She rolls her eyes. "They all say that." She purses her lips. "I have a lot more sympathy for a little girl starving herself than I do for you. You're old enough to know better, and you have no reason for it." She frowns. "That you've shared with me, at least."  
  
"I don't think it's your business." I snap.  
  
"Everything you do is my business, I'm your therapist."  
  
My stomach clenches tightly and I wince. My hunger pains have been particularly horrible today. I haven't eaten since I got here.  
  
"Well, then I want a new therapist."  
  
We glare at each other for a few minutes and then she presses a button on a phone near her desk.  
  
"Grace, can you escort Mr. Davis back to his room?"  
  
The nurse hurries in a few moments later and gently tugs on my arm.  
  
"Come along then, you."  
  
I leave with the nurse, who's a sweet older woman that reminds me vaguely of my mom. One of the girls I snapped at in therapy yesterday glares at me in the hallway. I fix her with my best fierce glare right back. The nurse shows me into my room and I'm annoyed to find Adam there, laying on his stomach, flipping through a magazine. He barely looks up.  
  
I walk over to my bed and rub at my arms. They're sore again and the most recent cuts from a few days ago ache horribly. I lay down on my back and try to ignore the empty pit in my stomach.  
  
"How was therapy?" Adam asks.  
  
"Fuck off."  
  
"Went well, I take it." He says, turning a page.  
  
I turn onto my side and try to ignore him. Eventually I fall asleep.  
  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  
  
Adam is poking me in the back.  
  
"What?" I snap, sitting up, feeling my body cry from the effort.  
  
"Uh, it's time for lunch." He says.  
  
"I'm not fucking hungry." I tell him angrily.  
  
He frowns. "If you don't eat, they'll give you a tube."  
  
"A what?"  
  
He shrugs. "A tube. It goes in your nose and to your stomach. They'll feed you through it."  
  
"That's disgusting."  
  
"So's their food, but it's better than the tube."  
  
"I can't eat." I tell him.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"I don't feel like it."  
  
He shrugs. "I tried." And then he leaves.  
  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  
  
When I lie down again to sleep, my throat hurts, my nose hurts and my stomach is angry. I'm going to have to throw up soon, I know, but I try to ignore it. All I want is to see Mark. I just want to see him and hold him and have him kiss me and tell me that I'll be all right. I turn onto my back. And I want to be able to believe him.  
  
"You awake?" I hear Adam ask from somewhere in the darkness.  
  
"What the fuck do you want?"  
  
He doesn't say anything after this and I almost feel bad. Almost.  
  
I even miss Maureen. I'd do anything to see either one of them right now. I can't help but be fucking pissed that they dumped me here. You need help my ass, it was just an excuse to get rid of me. I bet Mark doesn't even fucking care, he just got sick of dealing with my bullshit.  
  
But I know that's not true. I sigh heavily and turn onto my side again. Fuck this. I want to go home.  
  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  
  
At my next therapy session there is a thoroughly annoyed looking therapist, and a blond head barely showing over the back of the other chair. I feel my breath catch in my throat and the nurse closes the door behind her as she leaves.  
  
"Mark?"  
  
My therapist glowers at us when he stands up and I hug him tightly. I feel my eyes start to tear when I grip handfuls of the fabric of his shirt so tightly my hands ache. I press my body against his and my face into his neck and shoulder, and I emit a few low deep sobs. He rubs my back soothingly and kisses my face and lets me tear at him.  
  
"Get me out of here, Mark." I say to him quietly, but not caring if the shrink hears. "I can't do this without you."  
  
"Hey." He says softly. "I'm here now. It's alright."  
  
He makes an attempt to untangle himself from me when she coughs into her hand. He kisses my mouth gently and pushes me toward the other chair.  
  
"Since our attempts to contact any members of your family have not been successful, we called the person listed as your emergency contact." She gives Mark a withering look. I've never loved him more than when he smiles back at her.  
  
"Well," she says, picking up a chart and giving me a bitter forced smile. "Let's begin, shall we?"  
  
I shrug and look over at Mark. He reaches over and takes my hand and smiles at me encouragingly. The therapist looks at her chart.  
  
"You've been getting meals through a nasogastric tube." The therapist says, looking up. "Why aren't you making an effort to eat on your own?"  
  
I look over at Mark and then shrug. "I don't want to."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because I don't want to be here." I say angrily, still looking at Mark who's staring at the floor.  
  
"You need to be here, Rog." He says. "I can't help you. You don't want me to help you." He says sadly.  
  
"I need you to help me, Mark! I can't do this without you!"  
  
"I'm here now, Rog! I'll help you, but you need more than I can give you." His voice has an edge to it. He casts a look down at my body. "You've lost too much weight..."  
  
I stand up. I can't help myself. I'm furious. "You don't care! You don't fucking care. You and Maureen dumped me here and now I'm going to die here without you." I want to say more but I stop when I hear another cough to my left.  
  
"What?" I ask her viciously.  
  
"This is not helping your situation, Mr. Davis. Please sit down."  
  
I sit and glare at her. She looks over at Mark.  
  
"Mr. Davis has shown no interest in helping himself. He's antisocial, angry, aggressive and otherwise a general pain to treat." She looks back at me. "We've gotten his weight up to 118, but he's still severely underweight and not able to eat on his own. If he's released now he could relapse into old habits."  
  
"I don't want him released now." Mark says firmly, looking at me. I cross my arms and hate him.  
  
"Good." She says, nodding. "Now we also have Mr. Davis on a strong anti-depressant, to help with his self-esteem."  
  
I feel very much like a twelve-year-old girl.  
  
"An anti-depressant?" Mark asks cautiously.  
  
"Yes. Anorexia is usually rooted in deep self loathing, or an inability to see past one's faults."  
  
"You think that's Roger?" He asks, throwing me a horrified look.  
  
"Yes. Don't you?" She asks, opening a notebook and picking up a pen.  
  
He shrugs. "I know he's been a little, I don't know, sad, recently." Mark says and I let out a short bitter laugh. He glares at me. "But I didn't think he'd need that." He gives me another funny look. "How addictive is it?"  
  
"Fuck you." I say quietly, under my breath. I know he hears me.  
  
"It's possible to be addicted to anti-depressants, but we are monitoring his dosages."  
  
The therapist taps the pen against her lips. "Let's get into a little of the idea of anorexia. What could have made Mr. Davis a candidate?"  
  
"His girlfriend," Mark says. "His girlfriend died. He was depressed." He looks over at me. "He stopped eating. He stopped doing everything, really."  
  
"Girlfriend?" The therapist says with interest. "You've never mentioned a girlfriend, Mr. Davis."  
  
"Just call me Roger." I snap, not bothering to acknowledge her comment.  
  
"Roger." She says. "Would you like to tell me the circumstances of your girlfriend's death? Or perhaps her name?"  
  
"Mimi." Says Mark. I shoot him a furious glance and he has the decency to look ashamed.  
  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  
  
The rest of the session went about as well. She pried and poked and made me hate Mark for long stretches at a time. When she announced our hour was up we didn't know how to act toward each other.  
  
Mark stands up awkwardly and smiles cautiously.  
  
"Well," He says. "I'll, uh, I'll see you then, huh?"  
  
I push down the anger I've felt at him for the past hour and wrap my arms around him and hold him tightly.  
  
"Come back, Mark. Please visit me. I can't take it."  
  
He rubs my back. "It'll be alright, Roger."  
  
When he pulls away he looks in my eyes. "Will you try? Make an effort? You're hurting yourself, Rog, and it's hurting me to watch it."  
  
He kisses me gently, it only lasts a small sweet little second and I don't want to let go of him.  
  
"Don't leave me, Marky." I beg him.  
  
He kisses me again. "Make me proud, Rog."  
  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  
  
Notes continued: sorry it's not happier or anything. It was a hard chapter to write. Roger's getting out of the hospital soon, just because it's hard to write hospital junk and I want Mark back in it more. 


	11. Self Disgust is Self Obsession

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I affiliated with RENT. Story is most definitely rated R and not for the kiddies or close-minded.  
  
Notes: sorry again. Really. I feel bad, but I've been busy. Please forgive me and my horrible updates recently... I'm doing my best but I've got shit to deal with. Hope you enjoy this chapter anyway. :D  
  
Chapter 11  
  
-Self-Disgust is Self-Obsession-

They really shouldn't have a mirror in the bathroom here. You'd think they were encouraging our behavior, not trying to prevent it.

I stand in front of it almost every night, sneaking out of bed because I never swallow those sleeping pills (I save them, then take a bunch to knock me out for hours at a time during the day if I'm bored), and come here to stare. Sometimes I take off all of my clothes, sometimes just my shirt.

Tonight I lift my shirt over my head and stare hard. 120, they told me. Those seven pounds I've gained since I've been here help, but they don't hide the horror. I still look like a corpse, my bones stick out all over and if I lift my arms over my head, every detail of my ribcage can be seen.

I'm disgusting, but it's fascinating. I let my fingers trace over the bones, admiring the smooth ridges they create. It's sick. And I can't stop.

No. Think of Mark. Can't keep doing this because I have to get better for Mark. I can have visitors starting tomorrow and Mark promised to be here. I want to be able to tell him I'm better, that I can go home soon. I am better.

I look around the small bathroom. There isn't much in here, just a toilet and a sink really, the showers and whatever are somewhere else. My eyes land on the toilet paper holder. It's metal. The edges look sharp. They gleam at me suggestively. Fuck. I rub at my arms, I almost don't want to. I've come pretty far from this, but the familiar sting is pulling me to my knees in front it. I run a finger along the underside of one of the arms. It is rather sharp. But it would take a few tries. I run my finger along the other one, which feels the same until I feel a rip in the skin. I take the toilet paper off of the holder and examine the spot.

There's a little jagged area near the edge that I cut my finger on. It's good enough. I lift my arm up to the metal and press my skin against it, then pull my arm toward the sharp bit. It scratches, but doesn't cut. Fuck. I do it again, pressing my arm against it with more force, and this time the skin catches and a little blood wells up. Not enough. I do it again in the same spot until I've made a long line of blood across my arm, about halfway between elbow and wrist. It crosses over some other scars. I make another an inch or so away. I cut deeper than I mean to, the blood starts dripping down my arm. I move to the other side and do my other arm.

I'm starting to get the hang of it when someone hesitantly opens the door.

"Roger?" He asks quietly.

Fuck. I try to cover my arms, but there's blood on the floor anyway.

"Go away, Adam." I snap. The room is starting to blur around me. I feel slightly dizzy.

"Shit, man." He says, ignoring me and coming in the bathroom, closing the door behind him. "What'd you do?"

"I cut myself you stupid fuck. Get the hell away from me!"

"Shut up!" He whispers. "The nurse will hear you. She's down the hall right now, she saw me get out of bed. I told her I was going to the bathroom."

I gesture to the toilet. "Well hurry it up, I'm busy." My head feels heavy.

He kneels beside me. "Those look really deep."

"They are."

He rubs at his arms self-consciously. "I could never cut that deep." I look over at his thin little arms. I see the same old white little scratches that have always been there. He looks embarrassed.

"I'm not proud of it." I manage to say, the room and his face are blurring together. I start to feel sick, but then a strange calm sets in.

"I'm going to get the nurse." He says, starting to stand.

"Don't you dare." I say, then my head hits the floor and I pass out.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

When I wake up again, my arms are bandaged up to my elbows and I'm lying in bed. Adam is across the room, leaning against the wall, his feet hanging over the edge of his bed. I try to sit up, but using my arms for support makes them hurt so I lay helplessly on my back until Adam comes over.

"Here," He says. "No, c'mon man, let me help you."

I want to ignore him, I want to do it on my own, but I'd rather be sitting. So I let him help me up, and I lean against the wall like he had been doing.

"They wanted to put you on a more secure floor." He says.

"Why didn't they?"

"No room." He says. "And your therapist thinks you should be around other people more often."

"Bitch." I mutter, thinking of how she looked at Mark. Shit. Mark.

"What day is it?" I ask him, panicked.

"It's only like, 9 o'clock, man. Calm down. It was only last night." He looks both alarmed and amused.

"What time is the visitation thing?" I ask him.

"Visitors can come between 10 and 2." He tells me. "I don't know if they'll let you have anyone today, though." When he sees my face, his brow knits in concern. "You didn't have anyone coming, did you?"

"Yeah." I say quietly. "Yeah, Mark was..."

I look up at him suddenly, realizing I had forgotten who he was. It was that stupid kid I fought with my first day here. The one I've been trying to avoid the whole time. I glare at him and clam up.

"Why do you care, anyway?" I snap.

He sighs. "You're sort of fucked up, you know? I thought I could help."

"Sort of." I breathe, still glaring. "Well, you can't."

He rolls his eyes. "Whatever, man. I'm going out there to watch TV or something, I've had enough of babysitting you. Let me know if you ever want to actually talk."

"Not likely." I say harshly, but the moment he's gone the room feels very empty. I wrap my bandaged arms around myself and lay down on my side, intent upon sleeping some more.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Do you feel up to a visitor?" The nurse asks me gently. She's the old one, the only one I like.

Visitor? I try to clear my mind and think. Visitor, yes.

"Yes, it's Mark, right? Please, it's Mark?"

She smiles at me, but presses my back down onto the mattress. "Stay here, hon. I'll bring your lunch in here, maybe you two can eat together?"

I nod. Whatever, I think. I'd agree to anything at this point. She smiles and gets up, leaving the room for a moment. She comes back with a tray of food and lagging behind her looking shy is Mark. I ignore the rush of pain in my arms when I sit up and I hurry out of the bed and stagger quickly over to him. I hold him tightly and he laughs at me.

"It's alright, Rog. Hey, come on, sit down."

I let go of him enough to guide me back to my bed and he sits me down on the edge of the mattress and then sits beside me. He puts his arm around my shoulders and kisses my cheek. I pull him close again and kiss his lips, a desperation in the action that makes it rougher than I mean it to be. He rubs my back and smiles at me when I pull away.

"I missed you too, Rog." He says. "The loft is, well I suppose it's not any quieter than when you were there, but it's empty." He tells me. "It's missing the big blond gorilla that used to sulk around in it."

"Gorilla." I say quietly, pretending to be offended, but I'm really too happy to see him to care. I know I'm grinning stupidly.

"Well, I've missed my every move being documented by your stupid camera and being followed around all damn day." I tell him and he smiles.

"And I miss," I think for a moment. "I miss tomato soup. They don't have any."

"Poor baby." He laughs, but then turns serious. "They told me you're still not eating, Roger." He says. "Why aren't you eating?"

"I don't want to." I tell him. "I miss you too much. I miss the loft. God help me, I miss Maureen. I hate being here, Marky. I don't want to be here."

He looks sad, almost helpless. "Roger, I can't take you home until I know you're getting better. I don't think you are."

"Mark, please!" I beg him. "Don't leave me here, I can't take it!"

He looks horrified. His eyes flick over to the plate of food. "Will you eat something? Now that I'm here?"

I nod. "Yes. Yes, just don't leave me."

"I'll think about it, ok Rog? I just, I want to do what's best for you, even if you're unhappy." He shakes his head. "Shit, that sounds mean. I don't mean it like that, ok? I just..." He bites his lip. "Maybe that's what I'm doing. You're not happy, are you?"

I shake my head. "No. I hate it here."

He runs his hand through his hair. "I'll think about it, ok? Just, here," He picks up a piece of bread. "Eat this. Can you eat this?"

I take it from him and stare at it. I look back up at him. He gives me a questioning look. I break off a tiny piece and put it in my mouth. It almost feels good to have it there. I swallow it and when I take another piece it's a larger one. I manage this too, but then I cough and he hands me some water. Water I've been drinking. It's really the only healthy thing I've ever done, is drink a lot of water.

Mark kisses my forehead. "C'mon baby, you can do it."

I look at him in surprise and he smiles shyly. He wants that too, I think. He wants me to be better so we can do more than kiss and feel sorry for me. I take another piece of the bread.

I get through the whole slice and he even gets me to eat some of the mashed potatoes they put on my plate. Well, that's what they're supposed to be anyway. The nurse is in the room this whole time, but I hardly mind because I like her. Mark kisses me again, a long but sweet one on my lips. When he pulls away I wrap my arms around him and he holds me tightly.

"It's alright, Rog." He tells me. "You're going to be alright."

I sniff and blink a few times because I know he's going to leave and I think I'm going to start crying and I don't want to.

"I love you." He whispers and I freeze. I pull away and stare at him. He smiles hesitantly and I feel the first tear on my cheek and he reaches out and wipes it for me.

"I love you too." I tell him and he grins. I kiss him again.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"What happened to your arms?" He asks me, seeing the bandages under my sleeves for the first time.

"Oh." I say, looking away. "It's nothing. I just..."

"Roger." He says.

"I cut myself." I admit, looking up.

He sighs heavily. "Roger, how? Why? How can you keep doing this? I thought you were past that!"

I cringe at his disappointment and shrug.

"I didn't mean to." I say stupidly.

"How could you not mean to? You had to have meant to!"

"I'm sorry." I say quietly.

He sighs again and wraps his arms around me. "It's alright. Well, it's not, but... I don't know." He pulls away and shakes his head.

"Mark, I'm sorry." I grow fearful. I think he's pissed.

He looks up and gives me a small smile. "I know. It's all right, Rog. It'll be all right."

I don't know which of us he's trying to reassure.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Don't leave me." I beg him.

"I have to go, Rog." He says, his voice heavy and thick. "I'll be back tomorrow morning for your therapy. We'll talk to your therapist, ok? You've only got another week or so left on the money Joanne gave us. We'll talk about it."

I nod, knowing he has to leave. It's after 2 o'clock already. The nice nurse thought he was doing me good, so she let him stay longer and took the blame, saying she lost track of the time. But now he has to go. I hold him against me, listening for the beating of his heart and I can feel his soft breath against my neck. He kisses me once more and then he's gone.

As soon as he's gone I go back into my room and lay on the bed, thankful I don't know where Adam is. I hate myself. I hate that I hurt Mark just as much as myself. I wish he didn't care so much. I don't want him to be disappointed in me or to be hurt when I cut myself. I hate that I feel the need to do it, which only makes me what to do it more, to punish myself for doing it in the first place. The more I think about it, the less sense it makes until all of my thoughts center on a shining blade and all I want is to feel it in my skin.

I turn over in the bed. Shit. I can't think about this anymore. I have to stop. Think of Mark. He wants me better. He wants us to be together. He wants me to live with him again, and to sleep next to him, we both want to be lovers. Shit. Stop it. I don't deserve any of that. Why hasn't he given up on me yet? Why is it that no matter what I do I can't make him stop loving me? Why does he still care? I'm not worth that. I fuck everything up. I fuck up anything I ever do. I'm scared I'll fuck him up too. And then I really couldn't live with myself. Maybe that's what it all comes down to. I'm scared of hurting Mark. I know I could do it. I'm good at it. I do it every day. I've already hurt him. Shit.

I close my eyes and try to sleep. When I can't I dig into my pocket for a couple of pills I know I stashed in there the other day. I shove them in my mouth and swallow them with spit and lay back down. Sleep comes, eventually.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .


	12. Pretend There’s Something Worth Waiting ...

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I affiliated with RENT. Story is most definitely rated R and not for the kiddies or close-minded.  
  
Notes: OK, obviously my teachers don't understand the concept of A WORLD OUTSIDE OF SCHOOL, and add this in with band practice, voice lessons, homework and sleep (nice though, isn't it?) there's no time for anything else but crying in a corner. I'm just going to keep apologizing for the long time between updates, I'll do my best to keep them weekly, I'm really sorry if it takes longer.

This chapter is SUPPOSED to be longer, but I don't have time to finish it, so I'll post what I have and get back to you. It's been too long without an update. Enjoy it and thanks so much as usual for reading/reviewing! :D

Special note to evilemmylou: Collins? Uh... well he's... .... ... he's off doing happy Collins things somewhere lovely, I assure you. I tend to forget Roger and Mark aren't the only RENT characters. There's an occasional Maureen or Mimi thrown in... all right. I'm an ass. He'll show up soon. At least for a cameo. ;)

Chapter 12

-Pretend There's Something Worth Waiting For-

I wait for Mark, staring at my therapist with a hatred that can only grow from years of being oppressed, worn down and destroyed. It seems to have stemmed inside me as well.

"Your friend doesn't appear to be coming." She says, with a little smile.

"He'll be here." I tell her firmly, crossing my arms.

She sighs and takes off her glasses. "Well Roger, while you're here, let's talk about what you've done to your arms."

I wish for a way to hide the two thin appendages, but know anyway I try will look ridiculous, so I simply glare back at her.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Well, if you ever plan on my approval of your recovery from your illness, you are going to have to talk to me about it."

"Why do I need your approval?"

"I do not have to sign your release until I am sure you are healthy and able to function normally in society. Until you make an effort to communicate your problems to me, I cannot solve them for you. Therefore, you may be here a very long time."

"What if I want to go home?"

"I'm sorry, Roger. That's just not possible. We decide when you leave."

At this point the door opens and a nurse lets Mark in. He bites his lip and looks sheepish.

"I'm sorry." He says, more to me than the therapist. "I overslept."

I shrug, disappointed but hardly angry. The therapist gives him a harsh look of disapproval.

"Sit down please. Our time is limited."

Mark sits in the chair next to me. His hand reaches for mine and I let him take it. I look down at our joined fingers and allow myself to smile.

"Roger was just telling me his reasons for harming himself." The therapist says.

Mark looks over at me, his eyebrows raised, expectant, but I say nothing. I scowl at both of them.

"I wasn't. She was telling me why I can never leave." I say angrily.

Mark's brow furrows and he looks back and forth between us. The therapist sighs.

"Mr. Davis has expressed, rather frequently, a request to leave our facility. He has been placed under the supervision and care of his doctors and myself. None of us believe he is ready to attend to himself outside of our program. Mr. Davis has shown an impartial and even indulgent interest in his illness, an inability to get along with other patients and no appreciable response to therapy or medication. He is not ready to leave. Certainly you agree."

I look over at Mark and his eyes meet mine for a moment. He smiles at me gently and raises our joined hands and kisses the back of mine. He turns to the therapist.

"First of all, _Mr. Davis_ would not be alone." Mark says scornfully. "I've been _attending_ to him since high school, I think I'm still capable. I'm ready to accept putting him here was a mistake." He smirks. "And Roger has always shown an inability to get along with anyone."

The therapist narrows her eyes. "You think that on your own, you can fulfill the duties and responsibilities of our entire trained and professional staff?"

Mark shakes his head. "No, but I think I do him more good than any of your professionals. Does he look any better to you? He's unhappy. I don't want him to be unhappy, I want to take him home."

"I'm afraid I can't allow that."

"What if I said I can't afford it? The money I gave you is all I have. I don't have a job, I don't have any valuable possessions, we barely rent an apartment. That is all you're going to get out of me."

"Sir, it's not in his best interest that..."

I watch them, loving Mark more by the minute. He interrupts the therapist.

"This place is not in his best interest. I am."

I tighten my grip on his fingers. The therapist gets angry and calls us unreasonable, but I know I'll be leaving. Mark just admitted that we're broke, and I know he won't make me stay. Happiness floods my senses and I stop listening, trying to imagine the first thing I'll do when I'm home. Maybe play my guitar. Eat tomato soup. Eat anything as long as Mark is there. I could go stare in the mirror in our bathroom. Take a piss without someone standing outside the door. I smirk. Who am I kidding, I live with Mark. He won't leave me alone for a fucking second. I'll get to sit on the table and watch him film and be told to take my AZT and be nagged for not doing something or doing something too much. And I can go to sleep with him beside me and kiss him and hold him and maybe more and watch him and memorize any part I don't know already and love him and...

"Roger." Mark says again. I look over at where he was, but he's now standing behind me. I get out of my chair and go over to him. He's smiling and when we're standing together he kisses me and takes hold of my hands.

"You can come home, Rog." He says. "I'll be here tomorrow afternoon. You can leave then."

Tomorrow. Sooner than I could have hoped. Another day. Just one more day here. One more night alone, tired and cold. One more day walking through hallways of skinny girls with stringy hair. I grin at him and he laughs. I lean over and press my lips against his and he wraps his arms around me and holds me close.

"I'll take care of you, Rog." He says softly. "I promise you'll get better."

* * *

I thrust my hand into my pocket, finally deciding to use my stash of sleeping pills to get some rest. I don't know exactly what time it is, but I figure I've been laying here for hours.

"Hey, are you awake?" I hear from the other side of the room.

I inhale slowly and hold my breath for a moment before releasing it. I can't decide what to say to him.

"Yeah." I finally say. "But not for much longer."

"You're leaving?" He asks. He sounds sad, maybe a little annoyed.

"Yeah." I say again, pulling out the pills. Two or three? Four? Nine? I don't know how many to take. Probably a healthy dosage, I don't want to look crazy or sick tomorrow morning. Three, I decide.

"How come they're letting you leave?" Definitely annoyed. "You're fucking crazy."

I roll my eyes. Fucking kid. I'll be glad never to deal with this again.

I work up some spit and swallow the first pill.

I can't decide the best route to get him to leave me alone. Piss him off or appease him. "They're not letting me out because I'm cured." I tell him.

"Then why?"

"Because I can't afford it."

"Oh." He sighs. "My family keeps paying for it because they don't want me at home."

I shrug and swallow another pill. "Why do I care?"

"They think I'm fucked up." He says.

"They're right."

I hear him turn in his bed. I know he's looking at me.

"You're an asshole, you know that?"

"Yeah."

He turns away. I swallow the last pill. Maybe one more for good luck? No, no. Three's enough. I don't feel tired yet, usually they kick in sooner. But then again, I usually overdose myself to induce a near coma. I take another one out of my pocket and swallow that one as well. One more can't hurt when I usually take eight or ten.

"Well," He says, in a calmer voice than before. "I hope you're happy when you get out, you know? I hope you stop trying to kill yourself."

Wondering what the fuck is wrong with this kid, I turn away from him and close my eyes.

"Yeah, whatever. You too, I guess."

* * *

AN: I'll update soon! I promise I'll try!! :) Thanks! 


	13. Such Beautiful Dignity In Self Abuse

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I affiliated with RENT. Story is most definitely rated R and not for the kiddies or close-minded.  
  
Notes: I am a golden goddess! Not only did I manage to update in less than a week, I just bought that awesome big ass, black, fake-duct-tape-on-the-side RENT book for 7 fucking dollars. Thank you bargain book stores everywhere. Go in those fuckers!! I find the best weird shit written by cool gay guys. They're like, my hideouts. They're my Santa Fe. I go there when shit sucks. –laughs-. I'm a loser. Enjoy and thanks for all the reviews, you guys rock! :D

Chapter 13

-Such Beautiful Dignity In Self Abuse-

My head feels like a rock when I slowly blink open my eyes, cringing against the light in the room. I wince when the nurse clicks the door open to check in. My temples are throbbing.

Adam's bed is made, he's sitting on it, leaning against the wall rubbings his fingers lazily over his forearms.

"What are you doing?" I manage to croak.

"I used to want to be someone like you." He says softly. He narrows his eyes. "It's stupid though, isn't it? Wanting to be a fuckup?"

I shrug best I can while lying down. He continues.

"You're an asshole. You're completely insensitive and you think people that aren't as fucked up as you aren't worth your time. I never want to be someone like you."

I close my eyes and consider another dosage of sleeping pills.

"I thought doing shit like this made me interesting, and that it put me on some kind of, I don't know, plateau over other people. You know?" He lets out a bitter laugh. "I'm sure you know."

"Look," I start to say.

"I'm going to group today and I know as soon as I tell them I want to stop pursuing the lifestyle I've been trying to live for the past few years they'll put me in therapy and let me out in a couple months. So, thanks." He says.

"For what?"

He glares. "Even if I hate you for ignoring any effort I've made to be nice to you, if you hadn't I wouldn't have wanted to change. So it's because of you."

"So, thanks." He says reluctantly. Then he gets up off his bed and leaves the room, closing the door less than gently behind him. I watch him go, regretful, maybe, of my behavior towards him, but not really caring. Especially if in some warped and twisted way it helped him out. Despite anything and everything, no one deserves to live with the incentive to fuck up their life. Although I'd love to wish it upon Benny.

It's still early, Mark isn't coming until the afternoon. Fuck. Which means at least one, maybe two, tube meals. I frown. Maybe I could go to the meals, slip some food in my pocket or a napkin when they're not looking, and throw it away later. I don't want anything to be a reason for me to stay longer. It's risky, but doesn't seem too difficult to pull off. In fact, it might actually be a good plan.

I pull myself out of bed and look around for anything I need to throw in a pile to prepare for later. All I have are some clothes, really. Not a very difficult job. I collect all my saved up pills and put them in the pocket of one my pants. They could be useful later on, Mark doesn't need to know about them. It wouldn't be the first thing I tried to hide from him.

I make my way out of my room after I dress and start toward the cafeteria, knowing the meal started only a few minutes ago. If I had skipped it completely they'd come after me with their fucking tube. So I go. I pick up a few extra napkins after I take my plate of what they're calling eggs and well, something brown, at least is what it looks like. I poke at the yellow mess on my plate for a few minutes, Then bring the fork up to my mouth. I reluctantly thrust it in, disgusted by the slimy texture, hating the shape and the feel and the smell and taste of the food. I bring my napkin up to my mouth to wipe and spit the egg into it. When I lower it again I look around, but no one's watching me. Just a few more times and I can claim I tried to eat and they'll leave me alone.

I shove the napkins into my pocket once there's a good amount of food in them. I finish about a third of the plate this way, then shove it away and stand up, on my way to the bathroom to throw away my napkins. A nurse gives me a suspicious look.

"Where are you going?" She asks me, blocking my way out of the cafeteria.

"To the bathroom." I tell her, with a small confused smile.

"I'm going to follow you." She says.

I shrug. Whatever. She can stand outside the door, I don't really care. I lock the door behind me and pull the napkins out of my pockets and empty each of them into the toilet, then ball the napkins up tightly and throw them in the trash. I flush the toilet and run the sink for a moment before coming back out. I smile at the nurse who eyes me skeptically, but says nothing. I head back to the cafeteria to get myself some water.

0000000

When Mark finally comes around 1:30, I'm desperate and bored. I've been watching bad talk shows all day with the skinny girls and drinking so much water so quickly that my bathroom trips have become regular, about every half-hour.

I practically tackle him when he arrives and he laughs at me and grins stupidly. We both do. He takes hold of my hands and kisses me gently, then winks.

"Ready, handsome?"

I pull him close into a tight hug and kiss the side of his neck.

"Yes, please. Please, get me the fuck out of here."

He helps me carry my clothes, I'm careful to take the pants that contain my pharmacy, and he leads me to the car he must have borrowed from Joanne again.

"I'm really glad you're going to be home again, Rog." He tells me, looking over and smiling shyly. The way he tilts his head when he says this is at least endearing. But mostly it's adorable.

"You have no idea." I find myself saying, with a little more bitterness attached than I meant for.

"You forgive me, right?" He asks, after a pause.

"For what?"

"For giving up and putting you there?"

I sigh and shake my head. "I know why you did. No one wants to deal with a fuck up like me, I can't blame you for finally getting sick of it."

"But..."

"You don't have to make up excuses, Mark. I understand."

"But Rog, I just, I thought you'd get worse if you stayed with me. I didn't think I could do enough. Most of the time you didn't want to hear me bug you about eating or whatever. And I felt stupid nagging, and it was just, I don't know, I got scared." He bites his lip nervously and casts me the same tilted head, shy gaze. "I didn't want you to end up hurting yourself."

"Mark, I think we both know that the end result of basically anything I do is me hurting myself."

"Rog..."

"Kidding, kidding. But, I mean I know why you did it, I'm not pissed at you for it."

I realize how little like myself I sound. I sound tired, dejected, I basically sound like I'm giving up on everything. And that's just the tone. Why am I not furious? I hated every moment I spent in that fucking place and it's Mark's fault I was there. It's his fault and I should be able to blame it on Mark and be pissed and moody and threaten to kick his ass. Shit I would have done a year ago. I close my eyes and lay my head back against the seat. Maybe I am giving up. Have I fucked myself up to the point of no return? My body seems to know it, even my mind seems to. I just have to get myself to admit it and then I can shut up and there won't be a struggle anymore. There won't be anything to cure and I won't have to worry about hurting Mark anymore, or worry that tomorrow might just be too hard to deal with to want to wake up. Admit that I'm defeated and that I've lost my own fucking battle and I just might win something else.

"Rog? Are you there?" Mark asks, smiling, though nervously.

I nod. "Just thinking."

No need to worry him yet, really.

000000

When we get back to the loft I'm surprised to find a little party awaiting me. Maureen wraps her arms around me and sighs.

"God I'm glad you're back. Mark was going crazy without you." She says, half drama, half Maureen. I let it slide for once, happy as I am to see her and smile back.

"I'm ashamed to admit I might have missed his quirks."

"Like his nagging?" She giggles softly, pressing her face into my shoulder.

"And his worrying?"

"And his fucking camera?" She whispers and I laugh with her. We get a suspicious look from Mark, but only smile back and Maureen blows him a kiss.

"Roger." I hear from behind me and the familiar voice makes my breath catch.

"Jesus, Collins!" I practically scream, holding him tightly a moment later. His laughter fills my ears and I feel dizzy with relief. Everything seems to come together completely with Collins around. Mark knows me better than anyone, he knows how to calm me down, and help me cope with things, but he's also pessimistic and neurotic. With Collins nothing can get too far out of hand. And if it does, it's only because he's programming it to. One of those order through chaos deals. It's about control and comfort and security. And right now I'm feeling all three.

"Mark called me a while ago, said you weren't during too good." He tells me, still holding me close. "First chance I got I took some time off to check up on you." He grins at me when I pull away.

"Fuck, I'm glad you're here." I sigh.

"I would hope so, I don't get much vacation time." He grins, winking. "I need to spend it with those that appreciate me."

Joanne smiles warmly and gives me a hug. We don't know each other that well, but it's never prevented us from getting along. And she did pay for my abysmal stay at Hospital Hellhole.

"How are you?" She asks.

"I feel like shit." I tell her honestly. "But I'll think it'll get better soon."

"Good, good." Another hug and she's drawn away from me by Maureen.

"Are you hungry?" Mark asks me cautiously, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind. I smile and rest my hands over his.

"I could maybe eat something."

"Soup?" He asks unnecessarily, heading for the kitchen. I follow him.

"Collins wants to talk to you, later." He says quietly, opening the can of soup.

I lean against the wall. "Why? He gave me his 'what it's like to lose the best thing that ever happened to you to AIDS and how to cope' speech already."

Mark is silent for a moment. He sighs.

"Don't act like this, ok Roger?" He begs, looking up at me with pleading eyes. "Stop being an ass."

"But it's what I excel at." I tell him. "About the only thing I'm good at, really." I shrug. "Except maybe fucking shit up."

"Roger..."

"Whatever." Suddenly the noise in the loft is too much. I just want all of them gone, I want to curl up in my old niche in my room and drink and cut and stare and think and remember and hope and regret and detach. I find myself liking that shell of a person better than I've ever liked myself before or since. Seemed like I did more good then. Nobody was getting stepped on by my inability to feel anything, I wasn't causing trouble, I wasn't trying to ruin my life, or anyone else's. I was just coping in a sick, private way. So what if I found solace in an empty stomach? A thin line of red? Both. Often, always. Frequently. It was my way to survive.

So fucking what?

"Mark?"

"What?" He asks, with a smile. Jesus, so fucking infallible. I could tell him I hate him, I'd never want to see him again and he'd probably fucking smile and say 'if that's what makes you happy'.

But I know that's not true. He'd tell me off for being a fuckhead, then go back to making my soup. He can be sort of an idiot about some stuff, but he's not a complete pussy when you really get down to it.

"I think I might just want to like, be alone for a while." I say, and he looks wounded.

"But you just got here. You're going to hide from us already?"

"No, I'm just... I'm not in the mood for people right now. You know, right?" I beg him to understand. In his crazy Mark way of almost always knowing what I need and how to help me, please let him understand that I'm trying to politely tell him and the others to fuck off and let me be. I don't need a fucking pity party, I have my own every damn day.

"Well," He frowns. "Will you eat something though, please?"

I sigh, but he looks upset so I nod. "Yeah. Yeah, make it, bring it to me, please. I'll be in my room."

He gives me a small smile and goes back to pouring the soup into a bowl. I fill a glass of water and retreat, ignoring whatever Maureen asks me as I pass her. I close the door to my room and take a moment to appreciate the solitude. I can still hear them through the paper-thin walls, and I know they're out there, but it's the most alone I've been in a month.

Mark brings me the soup a few minutes later. He sits down in front of me and prepares to watch. I frown at his behavior, but say nothing. I pick up the spoon and stare miserably down at the soup. Seeing it makes it a lot less appetizing than the idea. I tilt the spoon and watch the thick red liquid run back into the bowl. Running, running, flowing like blood. Spills like blood. Thick and smooth, beautiful and red like my fucking blood. I want my knives but they're in the trash. I want to rip the bandage off of my arm and run my fingers over my new scars and pick at the newly formed scabs and make them bleed again. I want to touch my fingers to the mess and taste the metallic sting of my own blood on my tongue and close my eyes and wish that there was enough spilling out to fill a room.

But I just pick up a new spoonful and reluctantly hold it up to my mouth.

"For me, Rog." Mark begs quietly. "Please try, alright?"

I give him a fake smile I hope comes across as real and swallow the spoonful. Thick and filling, it takes up all the room in my mouth, weighing me down and suffocating me and forcing itself through my throat. I almost gag, but instead take another spoonful. I finish half of the bowl. Mark kisses my forehead.

"You're doing so good." He tells me happily. His lips find mine.

"I'm proud of you." He tells me. "You'll get better soon."

000000

I throw up what I just ate not even fifteen minutes later. I know Mark is crying and I know Collins is comforting him and I can hear Maureen and Joanne leaving.

It seems like simply not eating causes Mark less pain than him having to watch me puke up some fucking soup. I can't even tell what's soup and what's blood. It's all thick and red. The toilet full of red like the bathtub once was. This bathroom is eternally stained red everywhere. Figuratively, of course. Except for that little spot at the edge of the tub. Faded and brown. The last remnant of April. She'll outlive me after all.

000000000

Hope you enjoyed! Be back soon! :D


	14. Problem Is Diet's Not A Big Enough Word

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I affiliated with RENT. Story is most definitely rated R and not for the kiddies or close-minded.  
  
Notes: Hey all! It's a sort of short chapter, but it's one of my favourites so far I think, even if it is depressing to the max. Enjoy! As much as one can, I suppose. ;) Angst is a sick little fetish, isn't it? Thanks and much love to all readers/reviewers. Love you!

Chapter 14

-Problem Is Diet's Not A Big Enough Word-

I stare blankly at the piece of bread in front of me. I feel my soul sliding out, hiding in each of the separate pores of the food. To eat that will be to eat myself. I'll fail in my mission to utterly destroy my mortality. I'll eat my ambitions. I can't fucking do it.

"It's so easy, Rog." Mark begs softly. "Why can't you just eat? It's so easy."

I look up at him. I know, I know, I think. I hate to hurt him. As much as I'm hurting myself, I'll always hurt Mark far worse. He feels things so deeply. I do as well, but I'm past the point of caring. I feel things so deeply I can't feel them at all. If I allow myself to succumb to the intoxicating madness of consumption, I'll never stop.

He lays his hands on my shoulders, his fingers shaking and his grip is weak.

"Please, Rog. I want to help you."

I say nothing. I feel nothing.

I wake up.

Blinking, I sit up in bed, feeling Mark's arm slide off of my waist. Fuck. I run a hand through my hair and look around the room. Slowly, I push back the covers and crawl over Mark to get to the door. I look back at the bed, but he hasn't moved. I carefully open the door and slip through it.

It's been a long time since the drugged out at four am days, but I still remember where the creaking floorboards are, where not to step to wake up Mark. I step over them, make my way to the bathroom and switch on the light. I cringe away from the brightness at first, but slowly blink and adjust.

I stand in front of the mirror. I look like hell. I look away and pick up my toothbrush. Turning on the water I run it under the water for a minute or so, then pile toothpaste on it and brutalize my mouth with the idea of cleansing. I wince at the brush scrapes over my gum line, I can feel the little droplets of blood gathering and I scrub harder. The taste in my mouth is horrendous. Tastes like eating. Food. Tastes like easy life, or easy death, I can't decide. But I hate it.

I scrape the brush over my tongue and then spit. Foamy, pink and thick it flows down the drain. I still taste it, but my mouth is sore. I smile into the mirror and see the red lining on some teeth. I put the toothbrush down and cup my hands under the water and take in some of the water and swirl it in my mouth, cleaning away the blood. I spit and it's pink and bubbly with the last remnants of the paste from my assault.

I shut off the water and lean over the toilet and puke.

Falling to my knees I grip at the porcelain, emptying my stomach and my mind of waste and filth. Shaking, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I can't decide which way to go. Should I be saving myself for Mark?

Should I be letting myself dissolve?

The first sounds more appealing, but the second option is more practical.

* * *

Collins watches me as I stare at breakfast. Mark is showering. I told him I'd be fine.

"He wants to help you, Roger." Collins tells me.

I nod. I pick off a piece of the bread and roll it between my fingers. It makes a nice little ball of carbohydrates. I set it back on the plate.

He sighs. "I want to know why you're doing this, Roger."

I shrug.

"Why are you hurting him?"

I look up. "I'm not doing it to hurt him!" I say angrily.

Collins shakes his head. "But don't you see that's what you're doing? You might be trying to hurt yourself, but think of who you're really killing."

"Mark's fine." I say softly.

"I know that you're still upset over Mimi,"

Fuck. Mimi. I close my eyes and lean back in my chair, shutting out his monologue and begging for release. It can be so long without thinking about her and then she's back all at once. Mimi with soft hands and beautiful eyes and thick lovely hair.

Mimi with hardened veins, arms knotted and sore, eyes dead and sunken and thin, limp hair. Mimi the last time I saw her. But I see her again every time I look in the mirror. Death always wears the same face.

"But you've got to understand that life goes on, Roger. I miss Angel, I think about him everyday, and I wish he was here with us, but I know that's not possible and that I have to go on living."

The bathroom door opens. Mark's hair is wet and messy, he smiles at me, but his face falls when he sees I haven't eaten yet.

"Oh, Rog." He says quietly, coming over to stand by me. I can't look at him. I stare down at the pores in my bread. Feel my soul sliding away from me into the little individual holes

Fuck. I close my eyes.

"It's so easy, Rog." Mark begs softly. "Why can't you just eat? It's so easy."

* * *

He holds me and kisses my forehead.

"Go to sleep, alright? You're so tired. You need to rest."

I close my eyes but I can't make the shit stop. He runs his fingers through my hair and rests his hand on my forehead.

"You're so cold." He says. "But you're sweating." I hear the worry in his voice.

He lies down beside me and rests his head against my shoulder.

"I'm worried about you, baby." He says gently. "You're getting worse. I can't make you eat like they can. You have to want to, and I don't think you do."

I say nothing.

"Roger, do you want to get better?" He asks.

"Answer me, Rog, please. Because you have to want it. I don't want to let you go yet, but if you don't want me to help you, there's not much I can do."

"You made me give up smack." I say softly.

"It's different, Rog." He says. "All I had to do was take it away from you, lock you in your room and tell you that the pain would stop if you held out just a little longer. And now,"

He sighs.

"And now I don't know what to do. The pain won't stop for you, will it? It hurts either way."

I nod.

"I can't lock you up with a loaf of bread and tell you to eat, because you won't do it. And if you do you throw up a minute later." He sniffs. "What can I do, Roger? What do you need me to do for you?"

I move closer to him. "Keep telling me that the pain will stop. Even if it won't."

He wraps his arms around me. "I love you."

"I'm sorry." Is all I can say back.

* * *


	15. Nobody Loved You, Like Me

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I affiliated with RENT. Story is most definitely rated R and not for the kiddies or close-minded.  
  
Notes: I'm so sorry... it's been like, two weeks. But I've had zero time and actually, I should be writing a nine page paper for English or doing my French project right now... but I'm not feeling intelligent or artistic, so I thought I'd do some writing... since I feel completely like the ass I am. I love you all and your reviews, and I apologize profusely again.

Chapter 15

-Nobody Loved You, Like Me-

I can't help myself, I spit the small mouthful of bread into a napkin.

"I'm trying, Mark. Really."

I see him turn away and I rest my head in my hands. I'm trying. It's too hard, there's nothing I can do. My body doesn't want to eat, and it's not letting me force it. I look up again, biting my lip. Mark has disappeared into the kitchen. I listen for his quiet sobbing.

"Marky..."

Slowly, I lift myself out of my chair and go to him. I kneel beside him and rest my hand on his back.

"Mark,"

"Why won't you just eat, Rog?" He yells suddenly, looking over at me with red, tear-stained eyes. "You're killing yourself!"

"I'm trying, Mark." I say softly, looking down. I pull away and lean against the wall, pulling my knees up to my chest and staring at the floor. "I'm trying."

"Try harder."

"I can't! Don't you understand that? I'm not doing this on purpose!" My volume shocks us and we both look away.

"I'm sorry," He says gently, meaning it, a moment later. "But you have to know how hard this is for me to watch."

I let out a bitter laugh. "You've watched me destroy myself for years, Mark."

He shakes his head. "I've watched you try. This time," He stops and shakes his head. "This time you're really pushing your limits, Rog." He shrugs. "And there's nothing I can do about it."

I shiver and pull the fabric of my sweater away from the fresh cut on my arm, careful that Mark doesn't see me do it.

"Please, Roger." He says suddenly, and I look up. "Please eat. I can't do this. I can't let you go yet. And not like this. Please, not like this."

He slips his hand into mine. I stare down at our joined hands and swallow a sob I feel rising.

"I don't want to die." I say abruptly, the words cutting through the air and hanging between us, awkward and loud. My eyes meet his and I pray for understanding.

He gives me a sad smile. "I don't want you to die either, Rog."

"I'd hope not." I joke. "Or we'd have to seriously reevaluate our situation."

He lets out a short laugh and lifts a hand to touch the side of my face.

"Please get better, baby." He says quietly.

I bring his other hand up to my mouth and gently kiss the back. "Only you could make me want to." I regret the new cut in my arm.

He pulls me into an embrace and I rest my head on his shoulder and press against him. When he sits back he takes a hold of my arm and pulls my sleeve up. I wince as the fabric slips past the cut. He shakes his head.

"I knew it."

I pull my arm away, looking up, silently asking how.

"The way you move. You've been guarding it all day. And you haven't worn long sleeves for a week."

I let my eyes fall to the floor.

"You've got to stop this, Roger. The eating I understand, sort of. I can imagine how hard that must be for you. But you can't do this to yourself."

"It's the same thing, Mark. It's an addiction." I whisper.

"Well you've gotten over addictions before, you're going to do it again." He says firmly. "You don't need this, Rog."

"It feels like I do. Sometimes it's all I want all day. It sort of feels like it replaces hunger and that stuff, you know? Well," I sigh. "I guess you don't, but for a few minutes when it first starts to bleed, nothing around me matters. The fact that I know it's only going to ache the rest of the day doesn't matter, or that hunger is tearing me apart. It doesn't even matter that I know what it'll do to you when you find out." I shrug. "Until it starts to clot. Maybe if I could just bleed forever, I'd be alright."

Mark swallows. "That is the most cryptic thing you have ever said and I'm going to try to pretend you didn't say it."

"It's true." I tell him. "It's how I feel. It's the only thing that can make me ignore everything I'm fucking up."

"How did you get by before you started it, Roger?" He asks. "How did you get through high school with your parents fighting all the time, and blaming all their problems on you? How did you get through your withdrawal? How did you manage to last a couple years without heroin?" He glares at me for a moment when I'm silent.

Mimi, I think. I didn't need heroin, I had Mimi. I smile to myself, but the feeling clouds over soon enough. She didn't have quite the same idea of our situation, though. Casual usage until the end. There were times when Mimi didn't need me, she had heroin.

The answer isn't Mimi.

I look up at Mark.

"Fuck," I whisper. "I've had you all along."

He looks surprised, but he inches closer and takes my hands.

"Why the fuck are you still here, Mark?" I ask him. "How the hell do you deal with it?"

He smiles. "I know you're worth it." He says. He leans toward me and kisses my cheek. When he moves back I pull him to me again and claim his mouth. He makes a small sound of protest when I pull my hands away from his, but I wrap them around him and hold him closer. When we move apart to catch our breath he smiles again, but almost shyly.

"What's wrong?" I ask him, kissing his forehead, rubbing my hands over his back.

"Is this ever awkward for you?" He asks. "You know, kissing or whatever?"

"Why would it be? You're still my best friend. I just kiss you now and then." I smile when he blushes slightly. "No, not really. I never really thought about it."

"Doesn't it bother you that I'm a guy?"

I shrug. "No. You're not a guy. You're just Mark." I kiss him again. "And I love you."

He smiles and rests his head on my shoulder.

I have to stop this shit. I know I have to. I have a reason to. I have some sort of incentive. I rub my hand up and down Mark's back. I have him.

* * *

Notes Continued: Things are going to start looking up from here, thanks for reading! I promise I'll try to keep better time with updates, but it's really difficult. Senior year sucks. Hardcore. Blah. Love you!


	16. When I’m This Still You Are My Life

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I affiliated with RENT. Story is most definitely rated R and not for the kiddies or close-minded.  
  
Notes: Hey, hey! Look at this... a sort of not crazy delayed update! Hey, whoa?? Yeah, that's what I said. Didn't really have much homework over the weekend, however I am practicing for my audition for state choir. So, a lot of music stuff coming up in the next few weeks. Dude... the melodic minor scale will be the goddamned death of me if they make me sing it during the audition. Fuckers. Well, sorry for the ramble, and enjoy!

Chapter 16

-When I'm This Still You Are My Life-

"_What I want is to be needed. What I need is to be indispensable to somebody. Who I need is somebody that will eat up all my free time, my ego, my attention. Somebody addicted to me. A mutual addiction." _

_-"Choke" Chuck Palahniuk_

Subconsciously something is tearing away at my insides, pulling on my heart, little lines of long red streaks. Red streaks from the little tears. It cannot be a control issue, because I have control. I have it.

My skin is blistering from the lack of air my blood is receiving. It's not that I won't, Marky, it's that I can't. I promise. Control. I have it. I have it, I don't have to do this. I don't have to do this.

But that's a real beauty of life. A person can make himself believe anything. You can get used to anything, really. Anything can become commonplace. So I've come to believe I have control, and I've come to accept that I have to kill myself to live.

And if I stop...

No one can know what coming off of an addiction feels like until they actually experience it. It feels like you're losing everything that was ever important to you. I fight so hard for what I think I need, but in the end, does it even matter?

I have to shift my paradigm of life, because it's stuck on survive. Barely. If I could just nudge it over to where I can lay my dependence on Mark, I could get through this.

The first time I shot up, I accepted that I was probably ending my life. Nothing was sacred, nothing was important but my drug and the crushing addiction. I stood for nothing, I would have given up everything for one hit. I could be distracted from reality the whole night by the pain. I could always feel my veins burning, the sharp stabbing need growing at the thought of having it, dying once the needle was full, poised above my arm.

Control is a beautiful thing to think you have. But if you're only lying to yourself, it's a death warrant. The first time I shot up, the first time I slid my pocketknife through my skin and enjoyed the result, the first time I went a day without eating on purpose, and liked the feeling. Always thinking somehow that I could handle it. I always thought I'd be able to switch out of my behavior when the need arose.

Mark is still sleeping. I stare down at him for a moment, I can hear his soft breathing. For a moment I can believe that all I need is here. I can completely understand the extent of the pain I put him through daily, and I want it all to stop. I reach out and touch him, letting my finger trace his collarbone, the tender dip at the base of his neck. Masculine beauty can be a hard thing to appreciate. I don't think you fully understand it until you're faced with a man you really love.

He's still sleeping despite my fingers on his chest. I lean over and hold my face close to his, feeling the warmth of his breath against my mouth for a moment before closing the distance and pressing my lips briefly against his. When I pull away he moves slightly and lets out a soft moan but does not wake. I smile.

I pull myself out of his bed and head out into the kitchen, careful of the creaky floorboards and cautiously open a cabinet. The bread? I have no idea... counter. Right the fuck in front of me. I hesitantly pick up the loaf and start to open the bag. I can do this. A new kind of control, I can still think I have it if I want. Enough control to make myself eat this. I have the control. I can do it.

I take out one slice and leave the loaf on the counter and head for the table. I pull myself up and stare down at the piece of bread. Mark is more important than what I've wasted my life on. Think about it. I don't have to feel the pain to live. I close my eyes. I've spent my life focusing on the different ways to shock myself back to reality, I've missed reality completely. There are more important things than pain. There's love.

I open my eyes as I pull off a corner of the bread and hold it up in front of me. Slowly I put it in my mouth and look up at the ceiling. Think about it. Yes, it's food. Think of it as a way back to reality. A new way of shocking myself. Imagine enjoying this. At one point I did. At one point I'd be pissed we didn't have food in the loft. At one point I'd lived without heroin. And I'd remembered that. Strong enough, new control. I have the control to say whether I live or die, and right now I'm controlling my life.

I hear the floorboards creak, Mark has never needed to avoid them, and I look over at the door to his bedroom. He stares at me with wide eyes and neither one of us moves for a moment. I swallow, barely thinking about the action.

"Rog?" He asks softly, coming closer. Creak. Crack. He stands in front of me, looking up into my eyes. "What are you doing, Rog?"

I shrug. "I was hungry." I say thoughtfully, looking down at him.

He bites his lip and I try to smile. "I don't know I just thought that..."

His arms go around me with a force that pulls me off of the table. I collapse against him and laugh at him, letting the free hand not holding the bread hook around his waist. I kiss his forehead and lay my head against his. He doesn't say anything for a long time, but I don't really want him to, so it doesn't matter. Finally I back away and sit up on the table again. He pulls himself up beside me and stares down at the bread in my hand. I pull off another little piece and stick it in my mouth, again thinking of my new affirmation to live. I feel his hand slip into mine. I get through the entire slice of bread, though it takes me the better part of an hour.

Mark smiles. "What was it, Rog? What made you do it?"

I put my arm around him and lean against his body. "I was thinking, about you, about all you've said to me about being able to live without heroin and whatever, and how I've been living to try to die all my life and..." I shake my head. "I don't know. It started to make sense."

"You'll be alright." He says, to both of us, maybe more to himself than me. "You're going to be alright."

"I might still fuck up once in awhile, can you handle that, Mark?" I ask him.

"Roger, I've come to expect you to fuck up." He says, and I laugh because I know he's joking. He smiles too.

"But I'm serious, Mark. I," I pause to think of the words. "I might make some mistakes, I promise you I'll make some mistakes. And I need to know you can handle that and tell me that it's alright that I do."

"I know, Rog. I understand that. I'll help you, I won't get mad anymore, I promise."

"No," I say lightly. "Don't promise that. I like to see you get mad once in a while, because then I know you're human. Just, yeah." I smile. I don't need to say it, really. He understands.

He lays his head against my shoulder and I hold him tighter. You don't really understand anything, I don't think, until you're faced with someone you really love.

* * *

Notes continued: There's only going to be at least one, maybe two more chappies after this. Thanks for reading/reviewing/sticking with me this far! You all rock hardcore!

**Read books by Chuck Palahniuk!!! :)**


	17. I’m In Control But Out Of Time

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I affiliated with RENT. Story is most definitely rated R and not for the kiddies or close-minded.  
  
Notes: I'm really sorry!! School sucks and so does life in general. I promise (and I mean it, ha!) that the next update won't take as long. I've had no time and writer's block! I've tried to keep my reviews of stories I read regular, but as for actually sitting down and writing a chapter? Blaah... it's not even very long. I'm a failure. But it's full of slash! ?? yeah? Good? Love me? Thanks for reading!!

Rated R for total and complete slashy goodness. ;)

Chapter 17

-I'm In Control But Out Of Time-

When I open my eyes I'm looking up into Mark's. He smiles gently and continues to run his fingers through my hair.

"How do you feel today?" He asks me, reaching out his other hand to take mine, his fingers entwining with mine.

I smile weakly. "Alright so far." I tell him.

He leans over and presses his lips against my forehead, then lies down beside me again. I pull him closer to my body and he wraps his arms around me and lays his head against my shoulder.

"Do you want to do something today?" He asks. "Maybe go out?"

I smile and shake my head. "I'd rather just lay here with you."

Mark laughs softly. "We could do that too." He looks up at me. "But I want you to eat something first, alright?"

I sigh. "Just another few minutes Marky, I don't want to move yet."

"You can stay here." He says, pulling away and standing up. "I'll bring you something." I watch him pull on a shirt and head for the door. "Any requests?"

"Do we have soup?" I ask him.

He smiles and opens the door. "Sure, babe."

I grin weakly and let my head fall back onto the thin pillow. The bed feels large and cold without him here. I hear him moving around in the kitchen and close my eyes.

When Mark comes back he climbs into the bed beside me and I sit up carefully. He dips the spoon into the soup and holds it up for me. I frown at him and hesitate, but open my mouth a moment later. The warmth of the soup is nice, and it isn't hard to get a couple of spoonfuls down.

"You're doing great, Rog." Mark tells me. "See? You can do this."

He brushes his lips against the side of my face and I smile to myself. Everything feels good. The warm bed, the warm soup, Mark's infallible encouragement. Even the nagging guilt and the heavy remorse I always seem to carry subside a little. I finish almost half of the bowl and lay back down. Mark sets the bowl down on the floor and slides closer to me, propping himself up on one elbow and letting his other hand rest on my sunken stomach. He starts rubbing slowly in gentle circular motions.

"Think you can keep that down?" He asks.

I shrug. "I'll try." I move closer to him.

Mark kisses my forehead and lets his elbow collapse beneath him and rests his head on my shoulder, still rubbing my stomach. I close my eyes.

"Roger?" He asks softly.

"Hmm."

"Are you happy?"

I sigh. "Am I ever happy, Mark?"

He hesitates for a minute. "You used to be, you know. Before all of this. Before the HIV. You were always happy. Moody, yeah. But generally happy."

"I don't know, Marky. It's hard to just 'be happy', you know? I can't just stop thinking about dying because it's the easy thing to do."

"But you're not going to die right away, Rog. Why do you have to dwell on it?"

"Wouldn't you?" I ask him, more harshly than I meant to. "Why shouldn't I think about it? It's easy for you to sit there and say that, but what if you were me?" I look away. "But I guess if you were me, you wouldn't have fucked everything up like I have, so you wouldn't have to worry about it."

He sighs. "How do we always do this? I don't mean to nag you about it, but somehow it always comes up. I'm not pissed at you, if that's what you think."

I soften at his words. "I don't mean it either. What did you even ask me? If I was happy?" Mark nods slightly. "Well, I am. With you, at least. You're really all that's keeping me alive, and you've always made me happy, Marky." I tell him, resting my hand over the one on my stomach.

He smiles. "I want you to know that I love you, Rog." He shakes his head. "I don't tell you that enough. I don't think anyone ever has. I love you. Collins loves you, and Joanne too." He smirks. "Maureen loves you in some twisted way." His gaze becomes softer. "Angel loved you, and April, and so did Mimi." He says gently.

"And maybe for some of them, life won't change significantly when you're gone. But I'll lose the center of my existence. You're the person that brought me into this city, into this family, into this crazy life. You've been my best friend since freshman year and I've never been closer to, or loved anybody as much as I love you." He looks down and smiles shyly.

"And I'm scared of losing you, I really am. I don't know what life is going to be like without you, and I'm scared that I won't be able to stand it. I'm not ready to let you go yet, Rog. You've got to stick around and be healthy and happy because I don't think I can handle it if you aren't."

I watch him sadly for a few moments, biting my lower lip. How many thousands of words in the language and I can't think of a single one. I tighten my grip on his hand and his eyes meet mine.

"I love you too, Marky." I choke out quietly. I want to tell him something like he's told me. I want him to know what he does for me, and that he's the reason I even bothered to try to keep living, but I can't find the words. He doesn't seem to mind. He smiles at me and then kisses me in a hesitant, almost shy manner. I kiss him back, keeping the mood light, cautious. He moves the hand on my stomach and his fingers start to travel lower. I push his hand off and slide away.

"What are you doing?" I demand, sounding angrier than I meant to.

"Rog, do you want to try, doing... something?" He asks timidly.

I stare at him. "Mark..."

"I mean, are we actually together, or are we just..." He shrugs. "I mean, it's up to you, but I thought maybe... I don't know."

Unconsciously I let my arms cross over my body and cover my sunken stomach and exposed ribs.

"Mark, look at me! How the hell can you want to sleep with me? Really look!"

His expression actually becomes calmer. He reaches over and carefully pulls my arms away from my body and lays them back at my sides. He moves so he's beside me again. He lets his hands travel across my chest and waist, his fingers gently gliding over my skin. He smiles shyly.

"I love you, and I still think you're fine." He drops his head to my chest and kisses the center of my ribcage. He lets his head rest against my chest and his fingers move to my sides, trailing lightly down to my hips. "Would you kill me if I said you were beautiful?"

"I might commit you." I tell him, bringing my hands up to let my fingers run through his hair. "But I wouldn't kill you."

Mark lifts his head and kisses the corner of my jaw. He moves his lips to the soft skin beneath my ear and despite myself I close my eyes and sigh. Mark laughs under his breath and the light gust of warmth adds to the sensation.

"I think maybe," Mark says. "That you should just let me..." As he talks his right hand moves from the side of my hip to the front and when I feel his hand through the material of my pants I can't stop the low moan that it triggers. He slips his fingers inside the waistband of my pajama pants and slowly inches them down my hips. He lifts his head slightly and I use the opportunity to catch him in another kiss in almost the same instant that he starts a slow rhythm.

Mark presses his lips against my neck, again kissing under my jaw and slowly moving downward to the top of my shoulder. I arch my back, my head sinking into the pillow against his movements above me.

"It's been too long, hasn't it?" He asks softly. "Since someone's touched you."

I can't answer him, my breath is getting caught in my throat as it is.

He moves his lips back up to my ear. "I would love for you to make love to me, you know." He says. "But that can wait."

I pull him close to me, pressing my face into his shoulder and biting back the final cry. He spreads his lovely little kisses across my neck again and lays a lingering one on my lips before pulling away and lying beside me again. I pull him close to me and rest my head against his.

"You're all I'm living for." I tell him. "You've been the only thing keeping me alive for years." I kiss his forehead.

"You don't know what knowing that you love me means, or what that represents for me." He moves closer to me and tightens the grip of his arms around my waist.

"You're my constant. You keep me sane. You're my inspiration and my life and my love and my best friend and my lover and my fate."

"I love you." I tell him. "And I'm going to live for you."

* * *

Notes Continued: Aww... sap. I'll try! I _really_ promise this time, but forgive me if I'm slow. I won't take a whole month or whatever this time, but it might be a week. I feel bad. Sorry! I love you, thank you for reading/reviewing!!! 3 3 3


	18. Lovers Wrapped Inside Each Other’s Lies

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I affiliated with RENT. Story is most definitely rated R and not for the kiddies or close-minded.

Notes: So much for not taking a month. Bad Fraulein! And writer's block up the wazoo and back. I'm not good at writing happy things, guys!!

So, grovel grovel, cringe bow stoop fall to all of your poor unfortunate readers that have to wait for my junk… and worship worship beg kneel sponge crawl to all the crazy good people that update regularly. I used to be one of them!! Really!! Still love me? Maybe?

Boy Porn??? oo

Chapter 18

-Lovers Wrapped Inside Each Other's Lies-

Mark is in the kitchen making tea. Maureen smiles at me. With a little caution she picks up my hand and gives my fingers a squeeze.

"How are you?"

I shrug, but can't help smiling back weakly.

"It sucks, Maureen, it really does. I still wake up feeling like I'm about to die some days." I look down. "But you know I have Mark."

She giggles. "Have him deep in your naughty fantasies."

I shove her off. "Fuck off. He wants to be there."

She smacks me in the shoulder. "Don't push me, I'm just kidding." She grins at me and moves in for the kill.

"So like, have you…"

"Fuck off, Maureen."

"What?" She asks, put out. "You always used to brag about your escapades, Roger."

I smile. "I love him."

She rolls her eyes. "You're such a sap. You know? You and Marky both. He's domesticated you. It's pathetic."

I shrug.

"So," She starts awkwardly. "You've been eating, right?"

"Fuck, yes Maureen."

"I'm just asking, Roger. I'm worried about you too. And I'm supposed to call Collins the minute I leave and tell him how you are, so you better start talking."

I roll my eyes. "I don't know, Maureen. I feel like shit, if you want to know the truth, but I'm trying."

She smiles at me in a way that's nearly sympathetic, then checks her watch.

"Shit! I was supposed to meet Joanne an hour ago!"

She jumps to her feet. "Sorry!" She squeals, and I almost pull away when she leans over and lays a quick kiss on my cheekbone. Almost, but I don't.

"Take care of yourself, alright?" Genuine concern.

I nod, but give her a pathetic smile. "You know I've always had Mark to do it for me."

She's out the door before I finish, without even a goodbye to Mark.

"Roger?" Mark comes out holding two cups of tea. "Where's Maureen?"

I shrug. "Joanne called, an hour ago." Mark smiles. I take the other cup of tea originally for Maureen and stare down into it. I'm not particularly fond of tea in general, but I lift it to my lips and take a small sip before pulling it away with disgust at the heat and the taste.

"You're impossible, Rog. Just leave it, I'll drink it."

I set the cup down on the table behind me as Mark climbs up beside me.

"How are you?" He asks, and I roll my eyes.

"Why does everyone want to know how I am? Can't you all go back to not caring?" I cross my arms and glare down at the floorboards.

Mark sighs. "First of all, Rog, we want to know because we're worried about you."

"You don't need to be."

"It doesn't change that we are!"

"Well, I'm fine, alright!"

Mark shakes his head. "It's not alright, Roger. You could kill yourself if you relapse."

"Fuck off."

Mark sighs loudly and jumps off the table. "Well if you're going to play that game then just sit out here and pout. I'll be in my room."

He leaves me and slams the door behind him. I watch him go, then sigh and rest my head in my hands. I have the same weird mood swings I had during the last parts of withdrawal after the physical pains were mostly over. I woke up cornered by self-doubt today, lying in bed for an hour or two after Mark had gotten up. I want to be good for him, and I want to have a reason to drag myself out of bed. The want is there, but sadly it's like my guitar that I don't really do anything with anymore.

Really is a horrible word because you can never 'really' mean it. A 'not really' as opposed to a 'no'. An opinion versus the fear of what having an opinion could mean. I'm afraid of having to actually re-enter society. I don't want to have to worry about things that I've been ignoring for most of my adult life.

I feel inadequate, I feel under appreciated and I feel the need to show people what it's like to have a perpetual reluctance to continue with existence. But I have no outlet, no audience. What do I honestly have? Nothing, really.

I feel like the world is humouring me by allowing me to exist. Maybe it should just let me give up. It could be kinder in the end if AIDS just kicked in now.

I use to tell myself I had to create a reason to live, that one would never be handed to me, but I've lost patience decaying in the background for so many years. I guess apathy can fail you eventually, but empathy could kill me. I could spend all day crying and would never get out. There's no way out of my mindset.

"Rog?"

I look up at Mark who smiles awkwardly and slowly comes closer. He lays his hand on my arm. I love that he touches me with such a strange curiosity.

"I'm sorry." He says.

"Why are you sorry?" I ask him harshly.

"Because I know what a brat you are and still insisted upon attempting to talk to you about how you feel."

"Fuck off."

"Roger."

"Sorry." I tell him. "I really am." That fucking word. I look up at him hesitantly.

He sighs. "Rog, I know this is hard for you. But it's hard for me too because I have to watch you suffer through it. You have no idea how much that hurts me."

"Yeah I do." I tell him. "Because I feel the same way about you."

"Well, act like it sometimes, Rog! Don't be such a bitch all the time!" I can tell he's frustrated and annoyed but trying to cover it. And failing somewhat.

He pulls himself up on the table beside me and puts his arm around me. "I love you, Rog." He says, pressing his cheek against mine and lightly kissing the corner of my mouth. I let him pull me closer to him and curl against his body. He rubs my back gently.

"Hey, come on. Why don't you lie down for a while, all right? You've been sitting out here all day feeling sorry for yourself." He suggests, getting off the table and taking hold of my hand.

"I have not." I say indignantly, refusing to move. Unfortunately, I've lost most of the strength advantage I usually have on him throughout all of this shit and Mark pulls me off the table with a lot more ease than he ever could have before. I fall against him and he catches me and steadies us, despite my almost knocking both of us over.

I feel Mark's hand on my face in the dark once we're in his bed. His other hand is on my stomach and inadequacy hits me hard. I feel like I've failed him by starving myself. I can't fathom his attraction to me at this point in my existence. I fucked it up, I had fucked up our relationship before it even began. I want to blame someone else, I want there to be a chance that I'm not always a complete fuck-up, but there's no one to blame. Can I blame Mimi for dying? Mark for not realizing what I was doing sooner? None of that is fair or makes sense. I look over at the outline of his face in the dark. Crucial questioning as usual.

"What are you doing with me, Mark? How can you stand looking at me?" I ask him quietly.

He sighs. "Roger, when have I ever abandoned you? You'll never fuck up enough to the point where I'm not going to want to see you again. I didn't leave you when you got yourself fucked up on heroin, I didn't leave you when you told me you were positive and I didn't leave you through all of this shit either. And I'm not going to."

He holds my hands tightly between us. "To a lot of people you're a statistic. You are your disease, but not to me. You're my best friend and you're my lover and I could never feel the way about you that you think I should." He brings our hands up to his mouth and kisses my fingers.

"Don't talk about us like that." I tell him.

"Like what?" He asks me.

"I'm not your lover."

"You could be, Rog. I want you to be. It's what I consider you."

"It makes me nervous."

"What does? That I accept you as you are? I know that does because no one else ever has, have they? I accepted you back in high school as Roger Davis the girl-crazed pretty boy that everyone loved, and I still accept and love you now. That's not going to change."

"I can't be that again, Mark. I'm not high school me anymore."

"I know. I don't want you to be high school you. I just want you to be you. It doesn't matter to me what you look like or what you think you don't deserve. I know you're crazy." He tells me, grinning. He kisses my forehead.

"Mark,"

He presses his lips against mine and I can't focus on anything except the hand sliding up under my shirt. I pull him so he's balancing on top of me and rest my hands on his waist. He presses his hips against mine and I can't stop myself from moaning into his mouth. He pulls my shirt over my head, breaking our contact for a moment, then lets his lips move down to my neck. He knows me too well too soon, knowing exactly which places along my jaw line and under my ear will trigger the reactions he wants from me.

I pull his shirt off and it knocks his glasses crooked on his nose. I take them off and drop them on the floor next to the mattress. He presses his lips against mine again with an intensity that is as exciting as it is unexpected. I try to match him when I start undoing his pants, but my fingers just get clumsy in my rush and I have to slow down.

When we finally push our pants down and away, I pull him down against me and run my hands down the length of his body, touching as much skin as is available to my fingers. The heat of his erection against mine makes my breathing come in shorter and more hurried gasps. When his hand reaches down to grasp me I go limp underneath of him and my eyes fall open, staring up at the ceiling in a blurry wonder of pleasure. He kisses my neck, his other hand on my chest and I release myself in his hand a few moments later. His lips are on mine again and after a moment's rest I'm pushing him off and onto his back and working my way down his body.

I push his hips into the mattress when I take him in my mouth and he lets out a soft gasp. I feel his fingers brush against my hair, but then he pulls them back. Knowing Mark, he's much too polite to just grab hold of my hair to show me what he wants. I reach for his hands and pull them back in the general direction and he gently winds his fingers through my hair, guiding me in a rhythm until I get the hang of it, then his grip loosens so that his hands are only resting on my head, and I'm leading.

When he comes he calls out my name, which is actually very good to hear someone do again, and relaxes into the mattress. I stroke his thighs gently, briefly, before coming up beside him again and lying with my head near his. He kisses me chastely, lovingly and our arms encircle each other.

"It's been a long time for you too, Marky." I tell him softly, and he nods slightly, already half asleep. I kiss him again and move closer.

* * *

Notes Continued: What do you think? An epilogue or should I try to add more. It basically feels somewhat finished, I don't really know though. If you have any ideas let me know, as you may have heard, I've been gang-raped by writer's block. Well, let me know and I apologize again!! But fall musical is over so I'll try to crank out some more crazies before anything else happens! Ok? Love me? 


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